


All of Your Love is Sunlight

by canistakahari, WarlockInTraining



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Awkward Romance, Captain America Steve Rogers, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Florist Bucky Barnes, Happy Ending, Language of Flowers, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Alternating, Romantic Comedy, Shrunkyclunks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 22:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19237975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarlockInTraining/pseuds/WarlockInTraining
Summary: Sometimes the path to happiness involves bad timing turned good, a butt plant, and a little everyday magic. For Steve and Bucky, it's all that and more.





	All of Your Love is Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> **canistakahari** : I am so lucky to have gotten the opportunity to collaborate with the amazing [WarlockInTraining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarlockInTraining)! I've had the best time trading weird plant links, seeing progress sketches, and bouncing ideas off each other. Every single piece of art is stunningly gorgeous and lovingly crafted. also, huge, huge thanks to my always-fabulous beta, [starsandgraces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces). thank you, bb <3 
> 
> **WarlockInTraining** : Thank you so much [canistakahari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari) for this wonderful collab ! It was so much fun and I had a blast working on this awesome story ! (And I’m gonna be forever laughing about the buttplants)

  


Steve is running late.

When he leaves the tower, he is decidedly on time. He is also on foot, consciously optimistic about walking the twelve blocks to the florist. It’s good weather outside, sunny and cool, and he could use the fresh air after an entire day holed up in meetings sitting around a conference table picking at an anemic cheese and vegetable tray; Steve has a whole entire hour to get to the shop before close, anyway. He wants to walk, stretch his legs, burn off some of this nervous energy.

He does, however, make the executive decision to stop and grab a pretzel on the way—he catches a whiff from clear across the street and changes direction immediately to intercept the cart at its location, suddenly devoted to the promise of ingesting warm, fragrant bread. Steve is nothing if not efficient, finishing it in three big bites between Lexington and 3rd and then spending the next block wiping butter and salt off on his jeans. 

Just as he’s about to leisurely cross the street at 35th and 3rd, an SUV blows the red light and t-bones a sedan, and all hell breaks loose. 

By the time Steve has twisted the passenger side door off the sedan to a chorus of sirens and yelling pedestrians, removed dazed victims from both vehicles, and given his official statement to the officers that arrived on the scene, it’s suddenly two minutes to close and he still hasn’t made it to the flower shop. 

Yanking his phone out of his pocket, Steve dodges a hot dog cart and calls Tony. 

“You’re lucky I barely sleep,” Tony says, picking up on the second ring. “Because it is midnight in Helsinki, Rogers.”

“Sorry,” Steve says, picking up his pace into a dead run down the sidewalk. “I know. There’s just a slight chance I won’t make it to—”

“The florist?” Tony interrupts sharply. “Why are you calling me and not them?”

“I don’t have their number,” Steve grits out. “You gave me an address—”

“You have constant, satellite access to the internet!” cries Tony. “It’s Valentine’s Day, I ordered this arrangement almost a month ago—”

“I’ll make it,” pants Steve, “I guess I’m just wondering why they couldn’t deliver. I know I offered, but—”

“It’s a one man operation,” Tony says dismissively. “Best place in the city. I swear he does something special to his bouquets, Pepper goes nuts for them, they stay alive for ages. Do I need to say, yet again, that it’s Valentine’s Day, and you offered to do me a solid picking up Pep’s gift in my absence?”

“No.” Steve cuts through traffic, ignoring both Tony and the laws of physics to run straight up the side of a truck, doing a flip over the top, hitting the ground with a grunt, and then sprinting the final block. “I gotta go.”

“St—”

Steve hangs up and skids across pavement with enough friction to heat up the soles of his running shoes. He actually decelerates face first into the brick wall adjacent to the door, rattling the glass in the frame. 

The OPEN sign is still turned over. It is exactly six o’clock. 

Peeling himself off the wall, Steve pulls the door open. “...Hello?”

His first impression of Barnes Florist is the crisp smell of _green_. To Steve’s nose, it’s almost overwhelming; the rich, heady floral scent of blooming flowers, underscored by a fresh hit of bright leaves and the warm, woodsy musk of soil. The temperature inside is several degrees cooler than room temperature and considerably more humid. It feels like Steve just stepped into a carefully regulated temperate rainforest biome, surrounded on all sides by vibrant blooms, crawling vines, and buckets and buckets of cut flowers. 

The only thing missing is a florist. 

“Excuse me?” Steve tries again. “Sorry, I know you're closing—well, technically you're closed, but—”

The curtain hanging over the doorway in the corner behind the empty counter sweeps to the side. 

“Shit,” says the enormous bouquet that emerges from behind it. “Hello? Sorry, I forgot to lock the door, can you get it before anyone else tries to sneak in? I only just managed to kick the last couple of people out.”

All Steve can really see of the florist—is his name Barnes? It seems likely, considering the signage—is two arms hugging the paper-wrapped stems. 

“Uh,” says Steve. “Sure.” He turns back to the door, locking the deadbolt. As an afterthought, he also flips the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. 

“Thanks,” says Barnes distractedly, rustling around behind the counter. “I can help you in just a second.”

Steve turns around to find Barnes has put the bouquet down behind the counter, fussing over the paper with a length of red ribbon. He has his back to Steve. 

It’s a nice back. Broad shoulders, trim, narrow waist. Tight little—

What?

Rewind, Rogers. Put your eyes somewhere appropriate. 

“I like your hair,” blurts Steve, because it’s the only other part of Barnes that Steve can see, and it’s long and thick and dark, pulled up in the back in a messy bun that’s spilling out from the elastic. 

“Thanks,” says Barnes cheerfully. “I grew it myself.” 

Steve laughs with just a touch of hysteria. “Well, it looks like you’re growing a lot of things, here.”

“What?” Barnes whips around, blinking wide blue-grey eyes at Steve through thick-framed black glasses. He is really, extremely, unfortunately adorable; Steve is struck by an immediate desire to drag his tongue along the sharp line of Barnes’s jaw. 

The rapid _thump-thump-thump_ Steve can hear seems to be the panicked beat of Barnes’s heart. 

“The plants,” Steve says dumbly. “I mean. I guess you probably didn’t grow them all yourself. I don’t really know where flowers are sourced for sale. Maybe a local greenhouse—” 

There’s a warm hum in the room, a low-grade resonance that sinks deep into Steve’s bones. He can feel it right in the roots of his teeth. 

“Oh,” says Barnes. The moment breaks and he clears his throat. “Sorry, can I help you?”

“Please,” Steve says gratefully. “I’m picking up an order under the name ‘Stark’. It should be prepaid?”

“My last order of the day. The ginormous bouquet of pink and white roses,” says Barnes, gesturing to the paper-wrapped bundle on the counter behind him. Steve glances at it; seems about right, considering anything less than four dozen pristine roses would be an insufficient indication of Tony’s love for Pepper. As Steve turns his attention back to Barnes, he catches him giving Steve a once over, his gaze pausing on Steve’s chest before finishing its journey back on his face. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” offers Barnes. “I’m sure your partner will love them.”

“They’re not for me,” Steve says hurriedly. He’s not sure why it comes out of him with such a strong degree of urgency. It’s imperative, in this moment, that Steve communicate he is single to the cute florist.

In turn, Barnes’s face flushes bright red. “Oh, shit,” he babbles, embarrassed. “Oh, god, that was inappropriate. I’m so sorry! I should not have assumed.” 

“I’m just picking them up for a friend who’s out of town. Helping him surprise his wife.” Steve grins weakly. 

They stare at each other in mutual helpless inaction. The awkward moment expands intrinsically like the universe itself, trapping them both in place. Steve hits infinite mass and sees all of time and space. The analog clock on the wall above the counter ticks backwards. 

While the two of them languish in this interminable temporal anomaly, Steve notices the name tag pinned to the red apron Barnes is wearing reads ‘BUCKY’ in block letters. Barnes is wearing a soft green sweater underneath the apron, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing that his left arm is a prosthetic. 

Steve becomes extremely conscious of how neither of them has spoken in a protracted length of time. Don’t stare at him! Stop staring! 

“Well,” Barnes croaks suddenly, like it costs him valuable life force to create sound. Oh, thank god. Steve almost grabbed the bouquet with the intention of running for the door. Barnes’s mouth twists into a bit of a natural pout, the corners of his lips downturned ruefully. “I don’t know about you, but my soul definitely just left my body. I need you to sign here, please, and then these are all yours.”

“Thank you,” Steve says in relief. He takes the proffered pen and scribbles a messy signature onto the invoice. “Sorry for keeping you late. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, no problem. Hope to see you again,” says Barnes. He scoops up the bouquet very gently and holds it out to Steve. “Have a great day.”

Steve carefully tucks the bouquet under his left arm, ignoring the way Barnes zeroes in to fixate on Steve’s bicep as he cradles the flowers. “You too.” He turns to walk out, half-angled to face Barnes, waving awkwardly. 

The thing is, Steve’s mistakes at this point are too numerous to even bother listing. It’s just a clusterfuck of a day, socially, and he forgets that he locked the door for Barnes when he first came in. If he was a normal-sized man with normal-sized strength, he probably would have bounced harmlessly off the door. Unfortunately for Barnes and also for the structural integrity of the flower shop, Steve is a supersoldier that works extremely hard every single day to maintain his tanklike physique; evidently the force he exerts to push open a locked door is just enough to shatter the glass in the frame. 

“Son of a bitch,” says Steve, shocked stupid by what just happened. 

“Don’t move!” Barnes calls to him. “Holy shit. Hang on, fuck.” 

Steve watches him disappears through the curtained door again, emerging a second later with a big broom in hand. He rounds the counter, shuffling closer in sneakered feet. 

“It’s okay,” says Steve weakly. “I’m wearing shoes.”

“I mean,” says Barnes, giving Steve an incredulous look. “I didn’t think you _weren’t_ , but it’s still best you don’t move. Did it get on you? What the fuck _happened_?”

Steve realizes a couple of things in close succession: Bucky Barnes has definitely not identified Steve as Captain America, so saying something stupid like “I forgot I locked the door and then pushed so hard I broke the glass” really won’t fly. Which means he needs to play dumb and then somehow fix this surreptitiously for Barnes because Steve just _shattered the door of his business_. On Valentine’s Day. At 6:30 PM in the evening, when Barnes very likely wants to go home. 

“I don’t know,” says Steve. “Forgot it was locked and then walked into it, but it felt like it just...gave way.”

“Huh,” says Barnes, peering curiously at the frame of the door. “I really thought this was safety glass. Sure shattered like regular glass, though. Must have been cracked and I didn’t notice. Are you okay?” He turns wide eyes on Steve, brow furrowed with concern.

“I’m fine,” says Steve. He’s still clutching the bouquet under his arm like a football; it’s fully wrapped, so the roses are safe, and he doesn’t think there’s any glass on his person. “Listen, I know a guy. I can get this taken care of for you.”

“I have insurance?” says Barnes, sounding deeply unsure about whether this is actually factual. He grips the broom by the handle and starts to sweep the shards of glass away from Steve, poking the broom between his feet while Steve stays obediently rooted to the spot. “Accidents happen.” He sounds even more unsure about how you accidentally shatter a door. 

Steve once ran through a wall chasing down a criminal and left behind a Steve-shaped hole. He doesn’t have to try very hard to break stuff. 

“I insist, Mr. Barnes,” says Steve. “I’ll contact a friend to take care of this.”

Barnes snorts, shaking his head as he clears a path. “Oh, god, Mr. Barnes is my father. You can call me Bucky.”

“Bucky, then,” says Steve, nodding. His stomach does a little flip. “I’m Steve.” He watches carefully for some belated flare of recognition, but Bucky is focused on pushing the worst of the mess to the side. His glasses slip down to the end of his nose and he carefully pushes them up with the index finger of his prosthetic hand.

He catches Steve looking and straightens up, leaning on the broom. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, Steve, but you broke my door,” he says dryly. 

Steve’s face flushes hot. “I know, I’m so sorry, let me call my friend—”

“That was a joke!” says Bucky. “That was a terrible joke. My bad.” He hesitates just a moment and then smiles winningly. “But if you really do have a friend—”

“I do,” says Steve, taking his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. “A door—specialist.”

Bucky looks Steve up and down again. “Are you in construction?”

“Not exactly,” says Steve. 

In the end, Steve calls Pepper. He doesn’t remember that he’s clutching her Valentine’s gift in his arms until after he’s already hung up, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s going to hand deliver it as soon as somebody shows up to replace the door. Luckily, Pepper is maybe the most resourceful person Steve has ever met, and fifteen minutes later, two handymen show up, much to Bucky’s naked disbelief. 

“Wow.” Bucky angles his hip against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “You actually knew a guy. Multiple guys, even.”

“Listen,” says Steve. “I gotta go, you know—” he holds up the bouquet. “Deliver this. I’m really sorry I kept you here so late.”

Bucky points up. “I live upstairs. It’s really not a big deal. Thanks for fixing it. Do I need to pay these guys, or…?”

“No,” says Steve. “All squared away.” He gives Bucky a sheepish grin meant to convey apology and regret dolloped with a healthy dose of embarrassment. “I hope I didn’t delay any plans you may have tonight.”

“Oh, you mean the plans I have to sit on my couch and eat ice cream with my cat and my sister?” Bucky laughs. “I think I’ll live.”

Cute florist doesn’t have a date tonight, on Valentine’s Day. 

Which is… Not indicative of anything. It’s an unimportant detail. Still. It’s something Steve knows now. It’s a fact he can hoard in the cavity of his chest like a gremlin grasping desperately for a snack after midnight.

“Well,” says Steve. “I hope you enjoy your evening, Bucky. See you around.” He makes meaningful eye contact with him, smiling warmly. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky, cheeks a bit pink. He waves as Steve turns to leave. “Hope so.”

When Steve glances over his shoulder just before he turns down the block, he finds that Bucky is watching him go.

💐🌸🌹

The Door Guys take a couple of hours to replace the door.

Bucky thinks the door they bring is probably a lot better than the door Steve broke, which he’s not about to point out to them. They probably know, anyway. They also wave him off ten minutes into the installation process, exchanging numbers so that they can text him to come back down when they’re done so they can hand over the new keys. 

It’s not like Bucky’s going to hang around and watch them if they don’t need him present, anyway. It’s almost eight o’clock by the time he goes upstairs and lets himself into his apartment. 

He’s feeding Alpine when Becca texts him. 

**Becca** : what the hell happened to the door??  
**Bucky** : just come through, it’s fine  
**Bucky** : I wanna tell you in person, you’re not gonna believe it  
**Becca** : you didn’t get robbed right?  
**Bucky** : yeah they stole all my food so you better have a pizza in hand  
**Becca** : :P

The front door opens a couple of minutes later to the jingle of keys. Alpine yowls and abandons her food dish, streaking out of the kitchen. 

“There she is,” croons Becca from the entryway. “There’s my girl! Oh, hello! Oh, no, that’s not for you.”

“No pizza for the cat!” yells Bucky. 

“Here I was, thinking she just loves me.” Becca enters the kitchen, pizza in one hand, cat in the other. “But no, she just wanted to climb my body to reach the pizza.”

Bucky holds out his hand expectantly. Becca offers him Alpine. “I love my daughter, but right now I want you to hand me something I can eat.”

“I mean, she’s a little bony, but—”

“Pizza, please,” groans Bucky. “I’m _starving_.”

“Did you break the door yourself trying to get to food?”

“No. Grab the beer?” Bucky takes the box, carrying it out into the living room. Becca follows him, carrying the beer, and Alpine follows her, meowing loudly. 

“Come on, I’m dying here,” says Becca. She flops down on the couch, Alpine leaping up into her lap and headbutting her enthusiastically. 

Bucky heaves an enormous sigh and sits down in the armchair, pulling his legs up under him. He cracks open a beer. “So I’m slammed literally all day—”

“Ew,” interrupts Becca. “Bucky, don’t ever say that again.”

Bucky snorts, shaking his head. “Valentine’s Day sucks, as you know. I ran out of roses at, like, two. Last minute walk ins, unpaid orders, whatever, it’s an ongoing descent into the ninth circle of hell. Finally, all my orders are picked up except for this one completely over the top bouquet of, like, fifty roses—”

“Fifty? Are you sure? Seems like a weird number of roses.” Becca’s grinning, rubbing her thumb into Alpine’s cheek. 

“Forty eight,” says Bucky, rolling his eyes. “Four dozen. Do you want the story or not?”

“I do, but you’re taking forever telling it,” says Becca. “Okay, so, what?”

“I go into the back to get this bouquet, because it’s almost closing time and I figure whoever prepaid almost two hundred bucks for this thing has gotta show up soon,” says Bucky. “And when I come out, there’s this—guy.”

For a second, Bucky flashes back to when he turned around and found Steve standing at the counter like a big blond craggy mountain. He wore khakis and a v-neck t-shirt that strained around his biceps and exposed a clavicle so defined Bucky desperately wanted to stick his mouth on it. 

“Cool,” says Becca. “This is fascinating. A guy, huh?”

“Listen,” says Bucky. “First of all, this guy is definitely one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen. Shoulders like a linebacker, legs for days—”

“Bucky—”

“Seriously, the, like, breadth of this guy—” 

“ _Breadth_?”

“Broad,” says Bucky, gesturing meaningfully with his pizza and beer. “Bearded. Blond. The kind of guy you wanna just—climb like a tree.”

  


“Are you actually going to explain what happened?” demands Becca. “Or am I just going to sit here suffering through your hard-on for some customer?”

“Okay, okay, so, this guy,” says Bucky. “He’s picking up the flowers for his friend, I hand ‘em over, he turns to leave, and he just—” Bucky gestures wildly, because it’s still so weird. He put his hand out, and then… “He just kind of walks into the door? And it _shatters_.”

“It pushes out, right?” asks Becca, frowning. 

“I asked him to lock it when he came in, so that nobody else would show up,” says Bucky. “So he pushed on a locked door and instead of just walking into it and embarrassing himself, he shattered it through sheer force of sex appeal?”

“Did you get his number?” asks Becca, grabbing a slice of pizza and taking a huge bite. “You got his number, right?”

“Uh,” says Bucky. 

“Come _on_ , Buck!”

“I was a little preoccupied!” cries Bucky. “There was glass everywhere and he was just standing there looking like...like _that_.”

Becca cackles. “And you didn’t even get his number.”

“He said he’d see me around.” Bucky bites into his pizza and chews furiously. 

“That’s just a standard thing you say when you leave, pal,” Becca points out gently. “But hey. This is more action than you’ve seen in a while. I’m proud of you.”

“You should have seen his chest,” sighs Bucky dreamily. “His _arms_...” 

“Okay, the next time you meet a man so beautiful you start crying on the spot, I need you to ask for his number, so that I don’t have to sit through a twenty minute story that basically amounts to ‘a hot guy broke the door of the store’,” Becca says slowly. 

“We’re bonding,” says Bucky. “We’re having fun sibling bonding time where you appreciate the conversations we engage in, regardless of the content or topic, because you’re my sister and you love me.”

“If he comes back in, what will you do?”

“Get his number.” Bucky nods decisively. 

“Good. Thank you.”

Bucky’s phone buzzes and he groans. “That’s probably the door guys, I need to go down and get the new keys and lock up.” 

Becca waves him off as he stands, stretching her legs out across the couch. “Go, go.”

As he’s shoving his feet into his sneakers, he says, “Hey, you know what’s weird?”

“Yeah, I always thought you’d grow into your face, but now that you mention it—”

“When is your stand-up special on Netflix coming out again?” Bucky retorts. “I’m serious. When Steve came in today, I could have sworn all the plants kind of, like, responded to him. There was this warm hum, all around, just for a second.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just for you?” Becca asks, frowning. “You’re the one on the right frequency. They feed into _your_ energy.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, shrugging. “I guess. Speaking of frequencies, will you make me cookies?”

“There it is,” says Becca, sighing. “What kind?”

“Chocolate chip.”

“Maybe. Will you water my plants when I’m in Seattle next month?”

“Deal.”

💐🌸🌹

“You broke a door,” says Natasha. She sits back in her chair, propping her feet up on the edge of the table. “You pushed it and it just shattered.”

“I have to go back and check on the door, right?” asks Steve. “I left before they finished installing it.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Natasha says slowly. “Especially if Pepper sent them.”

“But it’s only polite. To follow up, right?”

“Hmm. I’m getting the impression you want me to validate you.” Natasha taps a pen against her lips. “You’re asking very leading questions. I can only imagine why you’d need an excuse to do something as bland and innocuous like checking up on a civilian’s flower shop after you destroyed the entrance.”

Steve folds his hands on the table and leans in, locking eyes with her. “It’s my civic duty to the community.”

“What’s this proprietor like again?”

“Bu—Barnes?” he stammers. “I don’t know. Brown hair? Shoulders? Eyes. He definitely has eyes.”

“A few more features and you almost get a whole person,” murmurs Natasha. “Is he cute?”

Steve pauses. He takes a good hard look at his choices, namely, telling Natasha about this in the first place and expecting anything other than being thoroughly dragged. “He is what I would consider objectively attractive,” Steve says carefully. 

“Purely from an aesthetic standpoint,” says Natasha, nodding. 

“Exactly.”

“You just want to check on his business.”

“As any reasonable person would.” 

Natasha smirks, dropping her legs and sitting forward on her chair. She reaches across the table and steals Steve’s espresso. “Sounds like you need to go, then. Check on that door.”

“Right.”

“And maybe that ass.”

“Y—no. Natasha. That’s—”

“It’s a good ass, right?”

Steve gives up. “Yes. It’s an extremely good ass.”

Natasha knocks back the espresso. “Go tap that, Steve. I am counting on you.” She holds out her fist expectantly. 

With a sigh of resignation, Steve smacks their knuckles together. 

And really, he’s just being courteous. Steve wants to check that the new door was installed and that Bucky likes it, and wasn’t too inconvenienced by the whole situation. If he doesn’t follow up after property destruction, then what kind of decent human being is he?

This time, he heads out a little early for his walk to Barnes Florist. Steve doesn’t stop for a pretzel and there is no car accident for him to attend to. 

Instead, Steve finds a brand new glass door installed when he arrives. There is a piece of printer paper taped to the inside of the door that says BARNES FLORIST in huge black font, presumably to stand in for the stenciling Bucky probably hasn’t had time to do yet. 

Steve is extremely gentle as he pulls the door open and steps inside. Cool humidity envelopes him. 

Bucky is behind the counter, his back to the door, and judging by the rhythmic snipping sound, he is trimming the stems off flowers. 

He’s also singing softly to himself to tinny music that Steve can hear faintly from the earbuds he must be wearing. As he murmurs to the music, swinging his hips from side to side, Steve becomes aware of a low, continuous hum that’s filling the crowded space. It sinks under his skin, thrumming through his veins. 

It feels—otherworldly, the air almost thick. As Steve stands frozen, watching Bucky work, every single plant in the room seems to be— 

Reaching out for Bucky. 

Vines, ferns, waxy leaves, delicate stems, vibrant blooms, all rustling eagerly.

Then Bucky turns around, locks eyes with Steve, and lets out a shrill yelp. 

The spell breaks. 

“I am so sorry,” says Steve, holding his hands up, placating. He grins sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Me? Scared? Nooo,” says Bucky, pulling his earbuds out. Steve can hear the jackrabbit beat of his heart. 

Steve walks up to the counter. Bucky’s hair is swept up in a loose ponytail today. The fingertips of his right hand are stained green and his nails are caked with soil; his prosthetic has a purple latex glove pulled over it to protect it. 

There’s a smudge of dirt right over the bridge of his nose. 

“Of course not,” says Steve. “The—door.”

“Please don’t tell me you broke it again,” says Bucky helplessly.

“No! No,” protests Steve. “I just came to check that the—door was installed properly. The new one. And that you’re happy with it.”

“Oh, you know, it’s great,” says Bucky, a little wild-eyed. “It sure is a door. It opens out. That’s great. Thank you. I appreciate the—follow up.”

This was a terrible idea. It’s been thirty seconds of conversation and Steve’s tenuous reason for even being here has already evaporated into the ether. No wonder Natasha looked so smug. She knew. She knew Steve would do this. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” asks Bucky politely. “Was everything okay with the order you picked up?”

“It was beautiful,” says Steve. “The recipient loved it, thank you. It was so beautiful, actually, that I was hoping to—to—place an order for myself!”

“You’re in luck,” says Bucky. “That’s kind of what I do here. What’s the occasion?”

“Funeral,” blurts Steve. 

Oh, god. He immediately wants to punch himself in the face. 

Bucky's expression falls. His voice, when he speaks, is the carefully modulated tone of an experienced customer service representative. “My condolences. What kind of arrangement can I help you put together? Have you thought about colors?”

Steve’s brain isn’t doing a great job of putting together rational thoughts right now. He has never purchased a bouquet of flowers. Not once in the long and short of his life. “Black?” he questions tentatively. That seems wrong. That’s what you wear. What is even happening in his brain right now? It’s like his brain cells are dying faster than he can replace them. 

Bucky stares at him with a very neutral expression. “Black,” he repeats. “It’s not really a color that’s easily found in nature, I’d say.”

“The,” says Steve. “Died. The person.” He sniffles theatrically. 

Bucky is unmoved. It’s understandable. Steve was here yesterday, crucially not in mourning while he shattered a door, and he can’t fake tears worth a damn. 

“White is traditional,” says Bucky slowly. “I probably have a catalog if you want to browse some options and get an idea about the cost.”

“I trust you,” says Steve. He’s really gonna maintain this charade, huh. Everyone makes choices. Sometimes they’re bad ones. Sometimes you need to slam the brakes but you just can’t remember how. 

The corner of Bucky’s mouth ticks up. “Got a price range in mind?”

“No,” says Steve. “Can’t put a price on—” 

“Dignity?” Bucky loses it for just a second and then quickly gets himself under control. He puts his hand over half his face, one blue eye fixed on Steve, and then waves Steve off furiously when he opens his mouth to speak. “Gimme a sec,” he wheezes. “Hang on, just—don’t move.”

He backs away from the counter, exiting the room through the curtain. He emerges again a second later, totally composed. 

“Hi,” says Steve. “Nice to see you again. Bucky, was it? How’s the new door holding up?”

“Hey,” says Bucky. “Steve. It’s a good door, thanks for getting that taken care of. Is there anything I can help you with today?”

They hold eye contact for a long, brutal second. 

“Nope,” says Steve. “I honestly just wanted to—see how you were doing. I was a disaster yesterday. I apologize.” 

Bucky’s face brightens into a grin. “No need. But I appreciate the thought. As you can see, the new door is fully operational.”

Steve nods. “Some good hinge action. Very smooth.”

“Yeah, the old one squeaked,” says Bucky. “So, really, you saved me the cost of replacing it myself. Wait, is this how insurance fraud starts?”

“We’ve set off down a dark path,” agrees Steve. He looks around the shop with a hint of desperation, trying to find something to talk about. If he buys something, he can extend this interaction, but he already eliminated the possibility of ordering a bouquet of flowers. Then he spots a tiny plant that looks like a butt. “Hey,” he says, pointing. “What exactly the fuck.”

Bucky picks up the small pot and holds it out for Steve to take a closer look. “It’s a lithops. A succulent. It’s a desert plant. It looks like a brain, right?”

“A brain,” says Steve. “Sure.” It does have branching tendrils of color spreading over the two lobes. “Are lithops easy to take care of?”

  


Bucky cocks his head. “Kind of. I have care instructions printed out if you’re interested in buying one. They go dormant in the summer and don’t need to be watered at all for a while, then you water them for a bit, and then you leave them totally dry for winter and most of spring. They need a ton of sunlight.”

“I’ll take it,” says Steve. “It’s weird and I love it.”

“That’s how I pick stuff out too,” says Bucky.

“Does it need to be repotted?” asks Steve uncertainly. 

“No.” Bucky grabs a laminated card from the rack next to the cash register. “I’ve potted it in the right soil. I germinated this batch myself, raised them. This one should flower in a few months. Put it on a sunny window ledge that gets direct light. Follow the instructions on here for when to water it. If you have any questions, you can just google it, but you could always call and ask, too.” Bucky clears his throat. “I’m happy to help.”

Steve grins and pulls out his wallet. “Thank you.”

“Watch out,” says Bucky. He is carefully bagging the pot in a small paper bag with the instructions. “These things are addictive. You can never have just one succulent.”

“Well, then, I’ll be sure to come back for more.” It comes out of Steve’s mouth weirdly seductive and Steve is pretty sure he isn’t imagining the blush that settles over Bucky’s cheeks. “How much?”

“Uh.” Bucky clears his throat again. “You know what? Just take it. You did totally comp the door for me.”

“But that’s because I broke it,” says Steve. “How much do these cost?”

Bucky shrugs. “Ten dollars, usually.” 

Steve removes a ten dollar bill from his wallet and pushes it across the counter. “Consider it a tip if you’re that reluctant to just sell me the butt plant.”

“Butt—” Bucky wheezes out a startled laugh. He picks up the cash. “Butt plant. Okay.”

“It’s all relative,” says Steve, taking the paper bag. He smiles and winks at Bucky and Bucky’s entire face definitely goes pink. “Thank you, Bucky. I’ve never successfully kept a plant alive, but I’ll do my best with this one.”

“Good luck,” says Bucky. “I believe in you.”

Steve is absurdly carefully with the door as he leaves. 

He’s halfway back home before he realizes he forgot, again, to ask for Bucky’s number.

💐🌸🌹

“I sold him a lithops,” Bucky says, phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder. “He said it looked like a butt.”

“Well, they do,” says Becca. “Like little alien butts. So you got his number, then?”

Bucky drops the bag of soil he’s holding and it explodes all over the floor. “Fuck!”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s a ‘I just dropped a bag of dirt’,” Bucky says, stalling. He scowls and scuffs the toe of his sneaker into the soil. 

“It’s a simple question, Bucky.” Becca exhales noisily. “You didn’t. I already know the answer.”

“He distracted me!” yells Bucky. “I turn around and he’s _right there_ at the counter, just looking at me with his stupid earnest face, and—”

“Yeah, his shoulders, you already told me.” Becca sounds like she is maybe 30% engaged with this conversation now that she’s discovered Bucky failed in getting Steve’s phone number, which, fair. 

“No,” says Bucky. “I’m just looking at him, trying not to drown in the ocean of his blue eyes or whatever, and he—” Bucky has to bark a laugh at the memory. “Becca, he lied about needing a bouquet for a _funeral_.”

“...What? Why?”

“I don’t know!” Bucky drops the phone back into his hand and sits on one of the folding chairs he keeps in the greenhouse. “At first he came in under the pretense of checking the door was installed correctly and then once that was confirmed, I think he kind of panicked? But I was simultaneously panicking and the only thing looping through my head was the words ‘pour some sugar on me’ so it’s not like I was doing a better job.”

Becca somehow manages to convey the look of deep contempt she’s probably wearing on her face over the phone. “Did you say that out loud?”

“No,” says Bucky, “I did not tell him that. I very gently made fun of him.”

“Then you did fine. So he engineered an excuse to come back,” says Becca thoughtfully. “Which indicates he likes you. Why didn’t _he_ ask for your number?”

“I cannot stress this enough: I don’t know,” says Bucky. There’s a tickle at his hand where he’s propped his elbow up on the wooden counter and he finds one of his ferns has coiled soothingly around his wrist. His body registers the resonant hum of the greenhouse, a low, gentle ebb and flow of sound that resembles the lap of waves on a beach. “Jeeze,” he says, amused. “Heck.”

“Gee willikers,” mimics Becca. “What?”

“My plants are trying to comfort me.” Bucky huffs an incredulous laugh. “It’s like a bunch of plastic bags in the wind. All rustling at me.”

“That’s good,” says Becca. “They give you silent comfort and I’m responsible for dragging your many failures.”

“Truly,” murmurs Bucky. “You’re everything a sister should be.”

“Glad to hear the grudging acknowledgement of all my efforts. Crank it up to enthusiastic gratitude and we’ll really get somewhere.” Becca pauses. “Like a date.”

“You have gotten weirdly invested in my love life,” says Bucky. He gets up and starts looking around for the broom. 

“Only because you refuse to stop telling me about it. And this is not a love life. Flirting over a butt plant exchanged for a new door is _not_ anything remotely resembling a _love life_. You had one job!” cries Becca. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” protests Bucky. “I wasn’t looking to meet someone.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I deleted Grindr off my phone two months ago after the date with fuckboy Jake,” Bucky says, grabbing the broom from where it fell behind a shelf of terracotta pots. 

“Was he the one that took you to a frat party?”

“When neither of us were even students? Yes.” Bucky stabs at the floor, shoving the spilled soil into one place. “It’s the first and only date I’ve had that took place at a kegger and also, simultaneously, in hell.”

“Isn’t that just the actual definition of hell, though?” Becca sounds thoughtful. “I know that a frat party is exactly my personal definition of hell.”

“Huh,” mutters Bucky. “I thought I’d gone to good keggers before but maybe that’s just what it feels like when you’re 20 and don’t know better. Then, with hindsight, you realize you were just trapped in a screaming nightmare of kegstands and beer pong. But I meant specifically, for me, that’s the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

“Fair enough,” says Becca. “Are you going to be okay? I need to go now and to be completely honest, you’re bumming me out a little bit.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, okay. Leave me alone to languish. See if I care.”

“Lunch tomorrow?”

“Bribery now, is it?”

“You want me to buy you lunch or not?”

“Yes, please.”

After they’ve hung up, Bucky finishes cleaning up. It’s getting late, the sun already dipping low in the sky as a sunset lights up the horizon; he’s finished watering and repotting and there’s dirt smudged under the nails of his right hand so deeply he’ll need to really scrub to get them clean. 

Steve is just some guy that came into the shop. He’s just some big, tall, absurdly attractive guy that picked up flowers on Valentine’s Day. He’s just a mountain of shoulders with a jaw like a coastline and biceps that make Bucky want to cry tears of desperate joy in gratitude that nature could be so incredibly kind in such an unexpected way for him, personally. 

But still. Bucky puts a great deal of effort into not noticing customers. He goes out of his way to dismiss them from memory the second they leave. In fact, he’s pointedly ignored Steve’s crooked smile and soft beard and how charmingly disastrous his attempts at conversation have been.

None of that matters. Steve only made an impression because he caused physical damage to the premises. Bucky kind of _had_ to pay attention to him. In a professional capacity only. 

“You’re the boss,” Bucky says aloud. To himself. Because he’s the only one here. “You could establish a rule in the employee code of conduct stating it’s against HR policy to date customers.”

That’s stupid. He’s stupid. There is no employee code of conduct because _he_ is the only employee. Sometimes, when it’s busy during holidays and if all his sisters are around, they will come in and help prepare orders. Becca in particular helps out when she feels like it. He doesn’t pay them. They get free flowers whenever the hell they want, anyway. 

Bucky’s really gotten off track, here. 

He exhales noisily and then tips his head back, cracking his spine. There’s an ache radiating down his left shoulder that’s been exacerbated by a long day. 

Locking up the greenhouse, Bucky heads back inside, removing his prosthetic as he goes. It gets dropped onto the kitchen table while his shirt and pants hit the floor on the way into the bathroom. Alpine winds through his bare legs as he crosses the threshold, nearly tripping him, then sits on the edge of the tub inside the curtain to watch him while he showers. 

“What are you getting out of this?” demands Bucky, standing directly under the spray of hot water. The water turns brown as he works soap under his fingernails, scrubbing away soil.

Alpine yowls at him. 

“I fed you,” Bucky says. He grabs the shampoo, flips the cap, and squeezes it directly onto the top of his head. Alpine watches him lather up his hair. “Creeper,” he mutters, before closing his eyes and tipping his head back under the water. 

Steve is just some guy. He’s just some guy with big strong hands that would probably feel really good on Bucky’s scalp, working shampoo and conditioner into his hair. 

Alpine meows judgmentally again, like she knows Bucky’s indulging in his beloved and oft-visited fantasy of Hot Man Washes His Hair For Him. 

Bucky needs to get a life.

💐🌸🌹

There’s a windowsill in Steve’s apartment that gets direct sunlight in the morning and partial light in the afternoon, so that’s where he puts his new plant. The instructions Bucky gave him explain that during the winter, lithops don’t need to be watered.

The little plant is apparently in the process of drying out and eventually absorbing its own leaves to grow new ones. Once it’s done doing that, he’s supposed to soak it with water. Steve has no idea what that means, but he has plans to do a lot of research. 

It looks a little sad, sitting alone on the ledge. He immediately understands what Bucky means about succulents being addictive. He wants to give his alien butt a friend. This whole windowsill could be replete with butts. 

Taking his phone out of his pocket, he snaps a picture and sends it to Natasha. 

**Steve** : [attached image.jpg]  
**Natasha** : what is this  
**Natasha** : what am i looking at  
**Steve** : i’m glad I’m not the only one that hadn’t seen one of these before  
**Natasha** : this is a plant?  
**Natasha** : this is ALIVE?  
**Steve** : yes  
**Natasha** : no  
**Natasha** : that’s a weird rock  
**Steve** : it’s a plant  
**Natasha** : it looks like a BUTT  
**Steve** : that’s what i said!  
**Natasha** : i love it  
**Natasha** : did you buy this?  
**Natasha** : wait did you buy this from CUTE FLORIST?  
**Natasha** : he sold you a butt  
**Natasha** : that’s a sign  
**Steve** : he tried to give it to me  
**Steve** : i paid him anyway  
**Natasha** : marry him  
**Steve** : i need to get his number first  
**Natasha** : let me get this straight  
**Natasha** : you went back there and somehow ended up leaving with this weird homunculus but still didn’t get his number?  
**Steve** : i don’t know what happened  
**Natasha** : i can’t engage with this conversation over text  
**Natasha** : buy me lunch

“This isn’t what I meant,” says Natasha, two hours later. 

They’re sitting at the sandwich place on the main floor of the Avengers Tower lobby. Steve sets down a tuna sandwich in front of her and sits down to unwrap his own egg salad sandwich. “It’s lunch,” he says, shrugging. “I bought it for you.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows behind her sunglasses, which she refuses to remove. Her red hair is all folded up under a Yankees cap. “I wanted a hot dog,” she says, picking up the paper-wrapped sandwich. “I wanted to sit on a bench in Central Park and eat a terrible hot dog.”

“We all want things,” says Steve. “And I don’t want to sit on a bench in Central Park in February.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” says Natasha. She tears the paper off and takes an aggressive bite of her sandwich. “It’s forty degrees out. That’s spring.”

“Is it?” Steve is briefly startled. Does that mean he’s supposed to start watering the lithops? He has no idea what it looks like when it’s finished absorbing the dead leaves. It’s been one day and he’s already killing it with ignorance. 

Natasha makes a neutral noise. “So are you going to tell me how you struck out again?”

“No,” says Steve. 

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to.” Steve is aware his tone is in the neighborhood of a sullen whine. He grabs a handful of chips and crams them into his mouth to avoid speaking again.

Natasha smirks. “If you had his number, you could invite him to the party.”

Steve chews and swallows industriously. He thinks he needs a second sandwich. Maybe a third. “What party?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “The Stark Industries clean energy fundraiser thing.”

“Am I supposed to be at that?” Steve may have received an email. He may even have opened it. 

“At this point, unless you say no, Pepper assumes lack of response is as good as tacit agreement.”

“That’s a bad date, isn’t it?” Steve squints. It’s extremely hard to tell Natasha’s practical advice apart from when she decides to willfully lead Steve down a path of deadpan pranking. Her sarcasm is equal opportunity. 

“It’s a fancy party with great food and an open bar.” Natasha shrugs. “What’s so bad about that?”

“That’s frustratingly factual,” admits Steve. He opens his second bag of chips. “But unfortunately none of this matters. I _don’t_ have his number.” 

“You could go back to his store,” says Natasha. “Buy another plant. Or return on the pretense of asking for help with your butt plant.” She pauses. “You _do_ have a phone number. For the store.”

Steve bristles, scandalized. “That’s a work number. I can’t call him on that and ask him on a date.”

Blessedly, Natasha lets this suggestion go. “Then go back and buy another plant.”

“He told me to let him know if I needed help. With plant care.” Steve frowns, torn. “Maybe it's just not meant to be.”

Natasha looks amused. “So the broken door and the anatomically inaccurate plant weren't kismet?” She hums. “Perish the thought.”

“Are you going to this party?”

“There's free food and an open bar. Of course I am.” 

“Will you be my date?”

Natasha's answering grin is very toothy. “No.” 

“Why?”

“Because I don't want to,” she mimics. 

Steve crunches morosely. “I deserved that.”

“It's for your own good,” says Natasha, sniffing delicately as she brushes crumbs off her lap. “Okay. Where's my hot dog?”

Steve crumples up all their trash and sighs. “It's like fifteen blocks away. Don’t you have meetings or something?”

“No. I'm not suggesting we walk, Rogers.” Natasha stands up. “What else is that ostentatious bike or yours for?”

With a resigned sigh, Steve gets up too.

💐🌸🌹

It's a little weird to be called directly by Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries.

Bucky’s taken orders for her countless times before, but it’s always been through someone else, and he’s never once believed that putting together an order under the name ‘Tony Stark’ actually meant it had anything to do with the man himself, or his CEO wife, or any of that. 

Stark Industries employs hundreds—thousands?—of people, and Bucky deals with event coordinators and executive assistants and a rotating slew of people coming in to pick the orders up. Bucky barely looks at the names on orders beyond matching them to an invoice or a piece of ID. Names are meaningless. He could go into Starbucks and ask for the barista to put the name Tony Stark or Iron Man on a drink for him and they’d do it without blinking. 

But Pepper Potts calling him...that’s definitely a little weird. 

Bucky’s entire life is a little weird, though. He can make plants grow faster and better and healthier just by touching and talking to them, so his scale for weird is skewed. 

The ancient multi-line phone that Bucky’s dad handed down to him from his old engineering firm lights up with an unknown number, which isn’t uncommon, but when Bucky picks it up and says, “Barnes Florist, how can I help you?” the person on the other end says, “Good morning, Mr. Barnes, this is Pepper Potts, and I have a bit of a centerpiece emergency,” which is about as uncommon as it gets. 

“Uh,” says Bucky. “I’d be happy to help if I can.”

“I need 25 centerpieces in 48 hours,” says Pepper Potts. She at least sounds apologetic about it. 

“That _is_ an emergency,” says Bucky. “And a pretty tight timeframe. I’d be making them myself…”

“I know,” she says. 

Which, _what_?

Pepper Potts knows? Him? She _knows him_? She is aware of him and his business as something other than a line item on her expense reports?

“We generally don’t contact you for large-scale events because we know you’re a small operation, Mr. Barnes. I wouldn’t be reaching out if my original order hadn’t fallen through. Can you give me an estimate on cost?”

Bucky charges $150 a unit on bulk order centerpieces up to a maximum of ten, so he multiplies that accordingly and then rounds up. “It would be close to $4000,” he says uncertainly, because that number sounds absurd. “But I can probably give you a discount—”

“I’ll pay $8000,” says Potts. “To compensate you for your time, a rush fee, and disruption to any of your day to day business.”

It’s like Potts reached out through the phone line and hit the power button on Bucky’s brain. For a second he just stands there, mouth open, staring at some water damage on the ceiling. Then he calmly walks to the door and flips the OPEN sign to CLOSED. 

“Mr. Barnes?”

“Just a second,” he wheezes. “I’m processing that number with my whole body.”

“I can go as high as ten,” says Potts, as though Bucky is concerned she’s not paying _enough_. 

Bucky makes a strangled sound. “Please don’t.”

“Too late. You’ll take the order?”

“What….” Bucky’s voice comes out strained and thready, sputtering into nothing. He clears his throat and tries again. “What kind of arrangement are you looking for?”

“Since this is last minute, I don’t care,” says Potts. “Whatever you have fresh, in quantity.”

“You don’t have a color scheme in mind?”

“I do, but I realize it might not be possible to match it at this stage. White or blue? Or both.”

“That’s easy,” says Bucky. “I can do that.”

“Then I trust your taste and judgement, Mr. Barnes.”

“When exactly should I have these ready?” 

“Noon on Friday. I’ll arrange for pick up.”

“Great,” says Bucky. “I can prepare an invoice—”

“That’s not necessary,” says Potts. “I’ve taken the liberty of wiring the amount in full to your business account. I have it on file.”

Bucky feels like he’s gonna pass out. His chest is tight. “In full?”

“Of course. I’d also like to invite you to attend the fundraiser you’ll be saving.”

“Um. What?”

“How do you feel about clean energy, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky’s head is a helium balloon and it’s already floating off into the clouds, never to be seen again, until it hits a powerline and ignites into flames. “I think it’s pretty neat,” he says weakly. 

“Friday night, 7:00 PM, at Avengers Tower. I trust you know the address? I can send a car.”

“Uh—”

“Oh, do you have a partner? I’ll arrange for a plus one.”

“Ms. Potts—”

“Dress code is semi-formal. Any allergies?”

Bucky gives in. “No. No allergies.”

“Great,” chirps Potts. “Thank you again, you’re a lifesaver. See you on Friday.”

Bucky keeps the phone to his ear long after Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries, has hung up, listening to the dial tone as his soul vacates his body. He gives himself ten minutes to fly, screaming, through another plane of existence, before he hangs up, pulls his cellphone from his pocket, and calls Becca. 

“If this is about your sad single life, I’m busy,” says Becca, picking up on the third ring. 

“Pepper Potts just wired ten thousand dollars directly into my account,” Bucky blurts out. “I need to make 25 centerpieces by noon Friday. Please. I need your hands.”

“Holy shit,” yells Becca. “Holy shit! What? What?”

“Will you help me,” Bucky begs desperately. “You can be my plus one to this—this event on Friday. She invited me. I think I’m dying. I haven’t been able to breathe in like twenty minutes.”

“I’m coming over,” says Becca. “I’m coming over right now!”

“I’ll be here, breathing into a paper bag,” says Bucky. He sinks down onto the floor to sit behind the counter. 

It’s a lot fucking weird.

💐🌸🌹

Steve will admit he’s a little infatuated.

When he detours wildly out of his way to pass Barnes Florist on Wednesday afternoon, he can admit, maybe, that he’s a little infatuated. What he finds is discouraging; the store is closed. The door is locked and the shutters are drawn even though Steve is sure he hears voices inside. 

Still. It’s not his business. He doesn’t even know what he would have done if the store was open. Bought another plant, probably. Updated Bucky on how his succulent is unchanged, which Steve is optimistically taking as a good sign. 

Whether he’d finally ask for Bucky’s number is unclear. 

He hasn’t been very busy lately, which gives him lots of time to dwell on Bucky, drafting up all the ways he could have avoided ending up in this situation in the first place. 

The thing is, Steve is a direct kind of guy. He’s not shy. He doesn’t get particularly anxious. He dates, he flirts. Put him in a room with Bucky Barnes, however, and he turns into a bull in a china shop, crashing into doors and breaking glass and forgetting fifty percent of his vocabulary. 

“You’re infatuated,” says Sam. 

It’s now Friday night, and for once, Steve didn’t bring this up. Sam asked if Steve had a date and Steve said he didn’t. Everyone keeps asking about it. 

“I am not,” says Steve, stubborn. 

“You walked how many blocks?”

“It doesn’t matter. I like to walk.”

“Hand me that tie. No, the blue one.”

Steve passes Sam the requested tie. Sam turns to the mirror and holds it up next to his face. It apparently meets whatever criteria he was measuring it against and he loops it around his neck, deftly tying it on. Then he picks up his beer from the table and takes a swig. 

Wandering away from the judgement zone, Steve leans onto his windowsill and peers at his lithops. He wishes he could tell if it’s happy. The last thing he wants to do is kill this poor little thing. It didn’t ask to be saddled with Steve. He’s responsible for it. It’s alive and he wants it to stay that way and this is why he created an enormous hand-drawn calendar divided by seasons and then broken down into months on bristol board. He used five different internet sources to build a timeline for watering and then drew visual representations of the different stages of a lithops lifecycle. 

Eventually his butt plant will produce a bloom directly from the crack of its ass. 

Steve can’t wait. 

“Well, I’m ready,” announces Sam. “We can go. Thanks for the tie.”

Steve holds his elbow out to Sam, who takes it with a smirk, and they walk into the elevator. 

“The ballroom, JARVIS,” says Steve. “Thanks.”

“I plan to eat my weight in finger foods,” says Sam. “The second the toasts start, I’m outta here.”

Steve’s been to a lot of these events. He has a routine. Find Pepper, let her introduce him to anyone that he’s required to meet, grab a drink, fill his pockets with crab rangoon, and then find Sam or Natasha and loiter with them until they get seated for dinner. 

He’s in the middle of a lull in introductions when Pepper gently takes his arm and says, “Oh, Steve, I want you to meet one of my personal guests. He stepped in to help with the centerpieces on really short notice and I’ve been buying from him for years now. This is James Barnes.”

Steve blinks and finds Bucky standing in front of him wearing a navy blue suit, a little sprig of white flowers tucked into his front pocket. His wide, pale eyes match the color of his dress shirt. The expression on his face is one of gentle shock; Steve drinks in his clean-shaven face, inordinately fond of the dimple in his chin, and the way his hair gleams under the dim lighting, pulled up into a soft bun. 

In the midst of Steve’s internal spiral, Pepper is still talking. “James, this is, of course, Captain Steve Rogers.”

“We’ve met,” says Steve, grinning helplessly. He holds out his hand anyway, though, and Bucky takes it instinctively. “Bucky, hi.”

“Captain,” echoes Bucky. His eyes are huge. “Captain? Oh, my god.”

Steve feels instantly rueful. “Is it the beard?”

“Oh, of course,” Pepper is saying. “Steve picked up the flowers Tony ordered for me on Valentine’s Day. They were beautiful, James.”

Bucky’s face is frozen in a polite rictus grin while his eyes seems to be working their way through every level of hell. “Thank you,” he says thinly. “I didn’t make the connection.” He seems to realize they’re still shaking hands, now, after nearly thirty seconds, and jerks his hand out of Steve’s grip like he’s trying to shake off a spider.

  


“I’ll leave you two to chat, I need to go speak to Tony,” says Pepper, excusing herself.

“Sorry,” says Steve gently. “Are you okay?”

Bucky gapes at him. There are twin spots of color, high on his cheeks, and a couple of strands of hair have drifted down from his bun to frame his face. “Am I okay? The jury’s still out on that one because apparently I wouldn’t recognize Captain America if he personally destroyed my place of business. Am I Lois Lane? Is your beard Clark Kent’s glasses?”

“You’d be surprised how often people don’t recognize me without the cowl,” Steve murmurs. “The beard just adds another dimension of illusion and mystery.”

“I’m kicking myself,” says Bucky, flushed and flustered. “Pretend I didn’t compare myself to Lois Lane just now.”

“I don’t even know who that is,” Steve says, blithe. 

“Shut _up_ ,” huffs Bucky. “Yes, you do. Don’t lie to me. Superman’s first appearance was in 1938.”

“Can I get you a drink?” asks Steve, changing the subject. 

“Please,” groans Bucky. “And pretend I didn’t just tell you to shut up.”

Together, they head for the bar. Steve tends to the warmth in his chest like a happy garden. “The flowers in your pocket. What are they?”

“Happy to see you,” Bucky quips. “They’re Lily of the valley.”

“Do they mean something?”

“All flowers mean something,” Bucky says evasively. At the bar, he orders a gin and tonic and takes a big gulp.

Steve hovers next to him, jittery with serendipity. “The centerpieces are beautiful.” Even before knowing Bucky made them, Steve noticed the delicate white and blue blooms, arranged in cool gradients in glass bowls filled with faux crystals. Curious, Steve had rubbed his fingers over the waxy petals, amazed to find them dotted with dew and steeped in fresh fragrance. 

“That’s a relief,” says Bucky. “My sister helped me put them together. She’s around here somewhere. She ditched me for crab cakes.”

“Is the green thumb genetic?” Steve asks. 

Bucky, in the middle of taking a sip of his drink, snorts G&T out of his nose. “Sorry,” he splutters. “That—no, not really. I mean, she’s fine at it, she’s got a good eye for design and arrangement, but she’s not allowed in my greenhouse. Her thing is cooking and baking.”

“You have your own greenhouse?” 

“On the roof of my building,” says Bucky, nodding. “It belonged to my grandparents. I’m lucky to own it.”

“I’d love to see it sometime,” says Steve. 

Bucky makes a small, panicked noise and downs the rest of his drink. “And I would love,” he says, sounding strained, “to show you my—greenhouse.”

Steve’s body fizzes delightedly. Third time’s the charm, right? “I look forward to it. What do you think of the party?”

“Well, it’s an open bar,” says Bucky, putting down a tip for the bartender as he orders another drink. “In a beautiful venue. I’m at Avengers Tower, mingling with the Avengers.”

Steve senses a caveat. “But?”

Bucky accepts his fresh drink and sips at it, turning to look at Steve with a sheepish grin. “If this was a party at a friend’s house, I would be hiding in the bathroom with the household pet.”

Steve nods solemnly. “There’s a private library we can hide in,” he offers. “It doesn’t contain a pet, but it’s quiet and accessible only to people with the appropriate credentials.”

“Seriously?” Bucky brightens. “Is this an offer?”

Steve extends his arm to Bucky. “Sometimes I go there to take a nap between courses.”

“Oh, Captain,” murmurs Bucky. “Now you’re just talking dirty to me.”

The library is, blessedly, empty. There have been occasions when Steve slunk inside only to run into Tony, Natasha, or Clint. As the door shuts behind them and the lock engages again, Bucky wanders in, looking around curiously. He’s still sipping at his drink, relaxed now that they’re away from the ballroom. 

“Is it weird?” he asks, turning to face Steve. He’s right in the middle of the room, the dim lights reflecting off the lenses of his glasses. “When people recognize you?”

“I’m used to it,” says Steve. He approaches Bucky, stopping a few inches away. 

“Was it weird when I didn’t?” Bucky chews absently on his lower lip. He carries his drink in his right hand and Steve notices for the first time that he’s wearing a leather glove on his left. 

“I thought it was cute,” admits Steve. 

“Give me your phone,” demands Bucky. He puts down his drink and holds his hand out. “I’m going to give you my number.”

“Oh,” says Steve. “ _Oh_.” Swiping to unlock, Steve opens the contacts app and hands it over, watching Bucky industriously enter his name and phone number. 

“I’m texting myself,” he says. “Now you can…” He looks up, suddenly shy. “Ask me if you need help with your lithops. Or talk to me about whatever.”

“Thanks,” says Steve, accepting his phone back. “I’ll do that.”

Bucky sits down on one of the leather couches, drink in hand again. He’s drinking reflexively, clearly nervous. When Steve sits down next to him, he smells sweet and a little boozy, like lemon peel and juniper and faint cologne. His left hand is braced on the arm of the couch, joints moving restlessly under the leather.

“You can ask, you know,” says Bucky.

Steve blinks out of his reverie. “What?” 

Bucky gives him a wry grin and wiggles his leather-clad fingers. A motor whirs gently, just on the edge of Steve’s hearing. To everyone else, it’s probably silent. Still, Steve’s face heats at being caught openly looking. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to stare.”

“I don’t mind,” says Bucky, shrugging his right shoulder. He takes a long sip of his drink and sets it down, carefully peeling the glove off his prosthetic. “It’s just a hand. It’s my hand. Pretty cool, right? My dad designed and built it, so it’s kind of a prototype. That’s his thing...he’s good with machines.”

The prosthetic is sleek, brushed black metal with silver joints. 

“Does everyone in your family have a thing?” Steve finds himself asking. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky, smiling fondly. “I guess they do. I’m proud to show it off. That he built it for me.”

Steve clears his throat. “Can I ask how…?”

“Sure. Venus flytrap,” says Bucky, deadpan. “They grow big and mean.”

Steve barks out a startled laugh. “I deserved that, but I was going to ask how it works.”

“It was purely myoelectric at first,” says Bucky. “Reading the electrical impulses from my upper arm, so that I could bend the joints. A couple of years ago, I participated in a study that wired it to my brain, and my range of motion and grip have improved.”

To demonstrate, he folds his fingers and pokes Steve right in the left nipple. Steve laughs.

“Serious question,” says Bucky, returning his grin. 

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Shoot.”

“Can we, like, order a pizza in here, or something?” Bucky widens his eyes appealingly. With his glasses dragging down the slope of his nose, he looks like a winsome librarian. 

“I could take you out for pizza,” Steve offers casually. “I’m sure nobody would notice if we left.”

“Shit.” Bucky sits up like he’s been shocked, fumbling back into his jacket pocket for his phone. “Somebody would. My sister,” he explains apologetically. “I left her out there. I should—” He looks up, his face journeying in real time through coy seduction to arrive directly at frank regret. He knocks back his drink to fortify himself and then pulls one leg up onto the couch and kneels next to Steve. 

In response, Steve goes very still, even when Bucky wraps a hand around the end of Steve’s tie. “Hi,” he says quietly. 

“Hey,” says Bucky. There’s a glossy sheen to his eyes, hair tumbling loose around the sharp angle of his jaw and the soft underside of his chin. Steve listens to him breathing and keeps his hands firmly at his sides. “I’m glad we ran into each other. I would really like to see you again, Steve Rogers.”

“I’d like that too,” says Steve. 

“Text me,” says Bucky. His face is very close to Steve’s but he’s not leaning in further and his grip on the end of Steve’s tie seems to be more for his own benefit, giving him something to hold onto. 

“I plan on it,” says Steve. 

“Would it be weird if I kissed you,” Bucky says, sotto voce. 

“I think, at this proximity, it would be weirder if you didn’t,” replies Steve, matching Bucky’s volume and tone. “Don’t let that dictate your decision, though. I would receive it positively. But if you feel pressured—”

Bucky closes the distance between them, pressing their lips together. The kiss is somehow chaste and sloppy at the same time. Bucky’s lips are soft, chapped, and he tastes herbal and a little bitter. As Bucky leans his weight into him, his knee sinking into the cushion next to Steve’s hip, Steve tentatively rests his hand at Bucky’s slim waist.

“I don’t feel pressured,” Bucky mumbles against Steve’s mouth. “I’ve idly daydreamed about riding around on your shoulders since you came in on Valentine’s Day.” He pauses. “Pretend I didn’t say that, too.”

“Say what?” 

Bucky grins and kisses him again, light and quick. Then he pulls away, climbing off the couch and straightening his jacket. His cheeks are a bit flushed. It’s charming. Steve is thoroughly charmed. 

“Text me,” Bucky repeats, backing away. He stumbles into an end table and giggles. “Text me!”

Steve smiles serenely, pulling out his phone. 

“What are you doing?” yells Bucky, his back up against the door to the library. 

“I,” says Steve very seriously, “Am texting you.”

💐🌸🌹

“You could have gone with him!” yells Becca. She drops her bag on the floor, kicks off her heels, and marches into Bucky’s kitchen.

Bucky, one step behind her, gets trapped in his suit jacket and stumbles gracelessly into the wall. “Feed Alpine!” he bellows.

“I’m feeding her!” There’s the rattle of kibble hitting a bowl and then a loud crash. Bucky groans, throwing his jacket to the floor inside out. He struggles out of his shoes and follows Becca into the kitchen, where she’s climbed onto the counter to dig through the top cupboard. There’s a trio of metal mixing bowls strewn artistically across the floor arranged from biggest to smallest. “There you are! Look, why didn’t you just text me? I was fine! There was an open bar and endless snacks.”

“I was drunk!” protests Bucky, tugging at the knot of his tie. “I could only handle being alone in a room with Steve Rogers for like twenty minutes before my brain hit full boil and I started worrying he’d be able to hear my skull whistling like a tea kettle.”

Becca has surfaced a bag of chocolate chips that Bucky didn’t know he had. She sits on the counter, swinging her bare legs against the cupboards. “These are probably still good,” she says cheerfully. “Even if the chocolate bloomed, it’s just you and me. Do you have butter?”

“Of course I have butter,” says Bucky, crossing to the fridge to remove it. “He’s Captain America.”

“I know.”

“He’s _Captain America_.” 

“So you said! I can’t believe I didn’t see him.” Becca opens the top of the big owl-shaped jar Bucky keeps his flour in and sniffs it delicately. Her nose wrinkles. “This is a bit musty.”

“I don’t use flour a lot,” he says. “His beard really changes his face, you know?”

“Right.” Becca sniffs again. “It’s still good though. Get me a cookie sheet.”

“Get it yourself!” Bucky says. “You’re helping yourself to everything else in my kitchen.”

“Because I want cookies,” says Becca. “Which means I need to _make_ cookies. Are you really complaining?” 

“No.” Bucky opens another cupboard and extracts a cookie sheet. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Becca picks the mixing bowls off the floor and rinses them in the sink. “I wish I’d been there to see your dumb face when you realized the awkward strongman you’ve been thirsting after is literally Captain America.”

“And I can’t express how grateful I am you were across the room shoving maraschino cherries into your bra at the time,” Bucky snaps. “It really changes his face!”

“So what happens next?” Becca dries the bowls, laying them out on the counter. She’s found an apron, tying it on over her cocktail dress. The scale that Bucky bought purely for Becca to use because he got tired of being yelled at about measuring dry ingredients by weight has also been unearthed. As Becca starts to scoop out flour, she also starts to hum. 

Bucky pulls out a chair and sits down at the kitchen table. “He texted me already. We haven’t settled on a date and time yet because he has to check his calendar first.”

“What are you going to do about this complete inability to be around him for an extended period of time?” 

“I don’t know,” says Bucky mournfully. “It’s like staring into the sun.”

“So put on some sunglasses.” Becca eyeballs the butter and digs some out. It doesn’t matter. Whatever she uses will be the right amount. “Smear yourself in sunscreen. Stare at him until your retinas burn out and his face has no power over you.”

Bucky pulls out his phone, just in case Steve texted him since Bucky last checked when they were in the cab. 

**Succulent Steve** : i hope you had fun tonight :)  
**Succulent Steve** : i’m glad we ran into each other  
**Bucky** : i had an extremely respectable time in the private library with you  
**Succulent Steve** : do you think anyone will notice if i take a centerpiece home  
**Bucky** : they won’t last  
**Succulent Steve** : but they look so fresh  
**Bucky** : good styling and a spray bottle  
**Bucky** : they’re a flash in the pan kinda thing  
**Succulent Steve** : [attached image.jpg]  
**Succulent Steve** : is it absorbing its own leaves yet?  
**Bucky** : no  
**Bucky** : believe me, you’ll really be able to tell  
**Bucky** : the two lobes are the leaves  
**Bucky** : the new ones will grow out from inside the two that are already there  
**Bucky** : have you ever seen alien  
**Succulent Steve** : it’s on the list  
**Bucky** : just show me when you can count four leaves  
**Succulent Steve** : quadbutt  
**Bucky** : I GUESS  
**Succulent Steve** : I’ll call you soon :) good night, bucky 

“He’ll call me soon,” says Bucky aloud, grinning like an idiot.

Becca snorts. “You hate when people call you.”

“Steve Rogers can call me any time,” says Bucky. “Steve Rogers can wrap his powerful thighs around my head and choke—”

“Ew,” groans Becca. “Don’t ever use any of those words in combination around me ever again.”

Bucky cackles, clutching his phone . 

As Becca works, measuring, sifting, stirring, folding, Bucky lets the comforting energy of the kitchen wrap him up in a thick blanket of warmth. Becca’s magic is a little more low-key than his is, but the roots of it tangle between them with every deft movement of Becca’s hands. Still a little tipsy and flushed with success, Bucky folds his right arm on the table, pillowing his head on his elbow and closing his eyes. Chocolate chips clatter into the metal bowl while Becca hums softly, spatula scraping through dough. 

It doesn’t truly take hold until the cookies are in the oven, filling the room with the rich, buttery smell of baking—chocolate and caramelizing sugar, decadent and warm. 

Bucky inhales deep and slow, letting it fill him up and radiate down to the tips of his fingers and toes. Heat ripples through him, tingling at his skin. 

“Ooh, these are good ones,” Becca coos. “Smell that?”

“Mmm,” hums Bucky. “I feel it, too. Cozy, like a big soft blanket. S’good.” 

Becca says something that he doesn’t catch. He must doze off because he startles awakes to Becca shaking him by the shoulder, saying, “Don’t sleep on the table, you’ll get sore.”

“Time is it?” Bucky asks, groggy. He sits up and groans, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Almost two,” says Becca. She taps her knuckles against a tupperware container. “Cookies. Eat one before you go to sleep, it’ll make you feel better. I cleaned up so I’m going to bed.”

“Pillow and blankets are on the couch,” mumbles Bucky, smothering a yawn. He needs a glass of water; there’s a headache building behind his eyes. 

“I know,” says Becca, heading into the living room. “I got it. Night.”

“Night,” say Bucky, waving her off. He sits for a moment, blinking blearily at the table. 

When he gets into bed after a hot shower, cookie in hand, he gets crumbs on his clean sheets, but he can’t bring himself to care. Steve Rogers is in his phone and on his mind; as he licks chocolate off his fingers and curls up to go to sleep, he remembers the light press of one big, steady hand to his hip, delicate and reverential. 

This has been a really weird week.

💐🌸🌹

Steve kisses Bucky at a party and then immediately has to go out of town.

It’s not ideal. 

A couple of weeks of downtime spoiled him and now he’s restless for entirely different reasons. At least, now, with the promise of a date on the horizon, a way to contact Bucky, he doesn’t feel dramatically hopeless about his chances of interacting with him in a way that doesn’t necessitate buying an elaborate bouquet of flowers for an imaginary wedding or funeral. 

On the jet to Paris, he texts Bucky apologetically. 

**Steve** : work’s come up, flying out today, not sure on return timeline  
**Steve** : is it okay if I call you when I get back?  
**Bucky** : you’re the one missing out on a fresh batch of my sister’s famous chocolate chip cookies  
**Bucky** : it’s your loss, my friend  
**Steve** : :(  
**Steve** : I’m losing out on a lot more than cookies  
**Bucky** : you talk sweet, you know that?  
**Steve** : that’s not generally the feedback that I receive  
**Bucky** : as captain america or as steve rogers?  
**Steve** : good point  
**Steve** : captain america gets punched a lot more  
**Steve** : but to be fair, so did steve rogers  
**Bucky** : well i think steve rogers is plenty sweet  
**Steve** : are you going to ask me to pretend you didn’t say that?  
**Bucky** : no, that one can stand  
**Bucky** : I look forward to when you get back  
**Steve** : me too :)

“I’m thinking of taking up some kind of hobby,” says Natasha. She’s lying lengthwise on the bank of seats next to Steve in the belly of the jet, her sock feet pushed up against his thigh. They still have a couple of hours in the air, so she’s dressed in yoga pants and a neon pink hoodie that clashes with her hair. 

Steve tucks his phone away and slides down in his own seat, crossing his legs at the ankle and tucking his hands under his armpits. “Knitting, maybe?” he suggests. 

“Too mainstream. That thing that looks like paint by numbers, but with yarn,” she muses. 

Steve blinks and turns his head slowly to face her. “What?”

“You hook pieces of yarn individually through a wall hanging,” says Natasha. “Or maybe it’s a rug.”

“Oh,” says Steve, the memory hitting him backhanded across the face. His mother, bent over the table, deftly hooking yarn through canvas. The little patterned rug of rolling green hills and blue sky. “Latch hook.”

Natasha snaps her fingers. “Yeah. That.”

“Do people still do that?” Steve asks. 

“Not out of necessity. They sell kits.” Natasha shrugs. “Okay, so no latch hook. Flower arranging?”

“Don’t,” huffs Steve. 

Natasha quirks an eyebrow, lips curled up in amusement. “Scrapbooking, then. Or dollhouses.”

“Furnishing them?” Steve turns his head, lets his eyes drag closed like they want to. Sitting here with Natasha’s low voice washing over him, he could definitely nap. 

“Building them,” she says. “Again, they sell kits. Tiny furniture, tiny food.”

“You could buy some kits and try them all out,” murmurs Steve. “Regift the ones you don’t like.”

“Hmm,” hums Natasha. “I just flashed forward to giving you a dollhouse kit for Christmas.” 

“Let me thank you in advance for such a thoughtfully selected gift.” Steve stifles a yawn, warm and comfortable. 

“What about you, Cap?” Natasha’s toes flex against Steve’s thigh. 

“I already have a hobby,” Steve says mildly. “I lift up heavy things at the gym.”

“Something creative,” insists Natasha. “You draw, right?”

“Used to,” Steve says shortly.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Yes, Natasha.”

There is a long pause. Steve is not anticipating the question that follows: “Are you happy?” 

Steve says nothing for a long time. Natasha isn’t being glib; he needs to give this thought before he answers. “I see the potential to be.”

“It shouldn’t hinge on a person.”

“Nat. It’s not.”

“You just met this guy. I do support it, obviously. I’ve never seen you so giddy.”

“Natasha.” He keeps his eyes stubbornly closed even though he can feel her stare burning into the side of his face like a green laser. 

“Steve.”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“I didn’t indicate that future potential happiness had anything to do with Bucky,” Steve says, feeling a little crabby. 

“But you’re not happy now.”

“I am. I’d be happier if I could take a nap.”

“Then why did you make it sound like it’s a work in progress?”

“Shouldn’t that be what happiness is? Nobody’s happy all the time.”

Natasha goes quiet. Steve starts to drift off, sinking down into sleep, until: “How about if I get you a DIY dollhouse kit for Christmas?”

“It’s February,” grumbles Steve. 

“So it is. How about if I get you a DIY dollhouse kit for your birthday?”

Steve inhales deeply and counts to ten. “Then I guess I’ll be happy in July.”

💐🌸🌹

Bucky is unprepared for the logistical challenge of arranging a first date with Captain America.

Steve’s out of town for almost three weeks. He texts sporadically, calls twice, and postpones three times. 

Not to be dramatic or anything, but Bucky is dying. 

A couple of days before Steve is, hopefully, coming back stateside, Bucky gets a text at three in the morning, his phone vibrating to life in his hand. He jerks awake on the couch where he apparently passed out watching TV. For a second, he has no idea where he is or what just woke him, and then his phone buzzes again and Alpine meows and leaps up onto his chest. 

“It’s not time for food,” he mumbles, stroking her clumsily. 

When he checks his phone, he finds two messages from Steve. 

**Succulent Steve** : back today  
**Succulent Steve** : would it be okay if i dropped by the store?

In a flood of unfiltered emotion, Bucky’s heart leaps at the prospect of seeing Steve so soon. Then reality comes stumbling in after, Bucky groaning as he rolls onto his side, gently dislodging Alpine. He fell asleep with his prosthetic on, and while it’s pretty comfortable for extended use and wear, that doesn’t include when he’s wedged his entire left side into the join of the couch and then slept on it for close to four hours. 

As he’s sitting upright, pulling his shirt off over his head and then unbuckling the harness, he tries to guide his groggy brain through the labyrinth of logical reasoning. 

Should he text Steve back now? Is that desperate? Whatever timezone Steve’s in, it’s clearly normal for him to be awake. He won’t be expecting a response from Bucky yet. He can reply in the morning, when he’s more lucid. 

“Alpine,” he says, hoarse, rubbing at his sore shoulder. “Come on, come to bed.”

She yowls from the floor, rubbing against his ankle. 

“This is me, getting up,” says Bucky, slumping back down onto the couch. He yawns, closing his eyes to rest for a second. A moment later, Alpine leaps up next to him, curling into the space next to his hip. 

Well, shit. He can’t get up now. Dang. 

He reaches out blindly, putting his hand on her warm body, getting a sleepy _mmrp_ for his trouble. 

The next time he wakes up, it’s to light streaming in through the windows. He didn’t close the curtains last night. Blinking in confusion, he squints into the bright room. Bad late night couch decisions have led to Bucky witnessing the glory of sunrise and welcoming it directly into his aching retinas. 

Bucky sits up, knuckling at his eyes and yawning creakily. A quick survey of the surrounding area reveals his prosthetic lying on the floor alongside his phone while Alpine sits on top of the bookshelf across from him and stares judgmentally down from her perch. 

It’s almost seven o’clock in the morning. 

When Bucky has gathered the energy to rise, he collects his phone, plugging it in to charge as he moves through his bedroom to shed his clothes into the hamper. He’s halfway through a shower, rubbing his fingers into the meat of his shoulder to work out the ache, when he remembers it was Steve’s text that woke him up in the middle of the night. 

Steve’s back today and he wants to come see Bucky at the store. Excitement bubbles up inside his traitorous body, trampled immediately by the familiar clammy nausea of anxiety. The last time he saw Steve, he _kissed_ him, inhibitions destroyed by some deceptively strong and easy to drink gin and tonics. 

Then three weeks went by, leaving Bucky ample time to second guess himself into forcibly lowering his expectations and then flushing them down the toilet. 

Even if Steve is back today, Bucky has shit to do. He’s not going to drift through the day breathless with anticipation. 

Bucky doesn’t text him back until he’s dressed, fed, caffeinated, and ready to open the store. Then he pulls up their message thread and has to work pretty hard to process what he’s looking at. 

**Succulent Steve** : back today  
**Succulent Steve** : would it be okay if i dropped by the store?  
**Bucky** : jaskdsjjjjjjjjjjjjlllllllllllllkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk  
**Succulent Steve** : i asked natasha if this was code  
**Succulent Steve** : she says you probably pocket-texted me  
**Succulent Steve** : I realize now that it was very late in New York when you got that message  
**Succulent Steve** : I’m really sorry if I woke you up  
**Bucky** : oh my GOD  
**Bucky** : i fell asleep holding my phone  
**Bucky** : it woke me up when it vibrated  
**Bucky** : not your fault at ALL i’m sorry  
**Bucky** : if you still have time to come by today, that would be extremely welcome  
**Bucky** : i’m open for business :)

“Oh my god,” whispers Bucky, instantly mortified. “ _Phrasing_.”

 **Bucky** : I mean, I’m about to open the store  
**Bucky** : see you later?

Steve gets back to him a few minutes later. 

**Succulent Steve** : haha  
**Succulent Steve** : we’re just boarding the jet now  
**Succulent Steve** : I’ll see you sometime in the late afternoon  
**Bucky** : great  
**Bucky** : I look forward to it :)  
**Succulent Steve** : me too buck 

Bucky gives himself five minutes to recover his dignity by sitting on the floor behind the counter with a potted hydrangea in his lap, calmly stroking the big silky green leaves. Steve isn’t going to be here until late in the day and Bucky has orders to get started on, the invoices all piled up by the cash register. Usually he can get through a good handful before he has to unlock the door at nine. 

He flips through them to get an idea of what the day will look like and finds pretty standard arrangements and bouquets, all noted down in either Bucky or Becca’s handwriting. She’s been in a lot this week, fielding phone calls and organizing orders. In fact, one of the invoices has a yellow sticky note on it that says:

> BUCKY! 
> 
> Don’t put this order together. I’ll be in at lunch to help out and I’ll wrap it. Don’t ask, I won’t tell. 
> 
> \- b

Bucky reads it over and frowns. When he carefully peels up the post-it to read the order details, he finds a paid invoice for a bouquet of pink carnations with baby’s breath as filler. Simple, sweet, one of Bucky’s personal favorites. When people usually ask him what flowers he prefers, he struggles to answer because he genuinely likes pretty much everything that grows. He’s taken to giving a different answer every time; it’s not a lie and his opinion changes on a daily basis.

The only flowers he doesn’t keep in the store or the greenhouse are geraniums. They _stink_. Even he can’t do anything about that. 

Whatever. Maybe Becca is putting together a bouquet for someone special. He sets the invoice aside and gets going on everything else. 

When Becca calls at 1:00 PM to tell him she can’t make it today, Bucky just brushes off her apologies and arranges the carnations himself. 

He doesn’t think anything of it.

💐🌸🌹

Steve’s lithops is finally absorbing its own leaves.

When he gets back to his apartment, the first thing he does is check on its little pot, anxiously peering at it. 

It has four visible buttcheeks. 

The two in the center are smaller and darker in color, pushing up between the original leaves, which have started getting wrinkly. They look dry, which he now knows is normal. When spring finally comes, it’ll be time to start giving it some water. 

Elated, Steve snaps a picture to show Bucky when he drops by later. 

He’s tempted to text him, but that’s probably too much, right? He already told him he’d see him. That’s definitely too much. 

Instead, Steve undresses and puts all his dirty laundry in the hamper. He trims his beard and takes a long, indulgent shower. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he stands around for a while and looks at himself in the mirror, trying desperately to do something with his hair. By the time he starts thinking about what to wear, he has no idea if he was successful. Dressing himself is even worse. 

He ends up on the casual end of the spectrum because he doesn’t want to look like he spent an hour overthinking his image, wearing a light blue t-shirt and black workout pants. 

Is this _too_ casual?

Because there’s nobody around to see him, Steve flexes in the mirror. 

Casual is just fine. 

He heads out just after four. Pepper called to place the order yesterday and assured Steve that the bouquet would be arranged by Bucky’s sister. He still hasn’t decided where he lands on if Bucky will like receiving a bouquet that originated from his own business, even if he didn’t have to make it himself. Steve got hung up on the idea of giving him flowers, though, and it’s not like he can go to another florist. 

There’s just something about the flowers that Bucky grows. 

He has to take a break two blocks out, leaning up against the brick wall of a bakery to take several deep breaths. 

Judging by the smell filling his nostrils, they use a lot of butter. Should he bring Bucky here? 

Focus, Rogers. Two more blocks. 

Every time he walks into Barnes Florist, there’s a piece of Steve buried deep that slots into place and settles. It’s not something he’s ever aware of being _un_ settled in the first place but then the bell rings and the door closes behind him and the inside of Steve’s eyelids lights up cool and green.

“Bucky?” Steve hesitates and then approaches the empty counter. 

“Coming!” Bucky calls from the depths of the shop. 

Steve takes a moment to look around. The atmosphere is hushed, like in a library or a soundproofed room, almost muffled by the sheer volume of plants. When Steve breathes in, he gets the bright, fresh scent of life. 

“Hey!” Bucky appears through the curtain, a big bouquet of pink and white flowers in his arms. He’s smiling, cheeks a little ruddy, and Steve is rudely reminded how pretty he looks when he blushes. 

Steve steps up to the counter, returning Bucky’s smile. “Hey, Buck. You busy? I can come back later.”

“No, it’s dead in here,” says Bucky. “I was just bringing this out because it’s my last order of the day and no one’s picked it up yet.”

“Oh,” says Steve. “I think it’s—that might be…” He stops himself and clears his throat. “Is your sister in today?” he asks. 

Bucky gives him a funny look, still hugging the bouquet to his chest. All that thick, dark hair of his is twisted up in the back with a big plastic clip in the shape of a parabola. Bucky usually wears his hair up. Steve briefly entertains the fantasy of gently tugging out the clip and watching his curls tumble down. “My sister?”

Steve blinks. What are they talking about? Steve drags his gaze down from Bucky’s hair and ends up looking at his waist. If Steve sets his hands at Bucky’s hips, his thumbs will align perfectly with his iliac crest. 

“Steve?”

“Sorry,” says Steve. “Did you arrange that bouquet?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Why?”

Steve tucks one hand into his pocket, the other climbing up to curl anxiously around the back of his neck. His entire face is heating up with unfortunate realization, the heat spreading. Soon it will engulf his entire stupid body and he’ll start to sweat and then his entire two hours of preparation will be rendered absolutely useless. 

“I think I need to sign the invoice,” Steve says.

  


“Wait, did you order these?” Bucky finally sets the flowers down and starts to sort through a pile of papers by the register. When he finds the one he’s looking for, he peels a post-it note off it, his brow furrowing. A lock of hair hangs into his eyes only to be brushed away. “Steve Rogers,” he says eventually, nodding. “What’s the occasion?”

Steve takes the pen Bucky offers him and considers lying. There are so many options, here. Pretend these flowers are for Pepper. Take them and leave and never mention it again. Go back to that bakery, buy something sweet, and bring _that_ to Bucky instead. Walk out of the store, take a right, and walk until he hits water, then keep walking into the ocean, never to be seen or heard from again. 

“Steve?” Bucky peers at him, concern clear on his face. “Are you okay? You keep—” He gestures vaguely, a flicker of his fingers to indicate Steve’s repeated breaks from reality. 

“I’m fine,” says Steve, sighing. He signs his name to the invoice. There is no point lying about this. Mustering up a sheepish smile, he picks up the flowers and then holds them out to Bucky.

“What are you doing,” says Bucky. “Are you jetlagged? It’s really sweet that you came by, but if you need some sleep, then—”

“I got these for you,” admits Steve. 

“For me?” echoes Bucky. He still hasn’t taken the flowers back from Steve. 

“For you,” Steve says, rueful. “I asked Pepper to place the order for me. She confirmed she’d done it through your sister, and _she_ said you like these best, that you like…”

“Carnations,” Bucky supplies helpfully. His eyes are very wide. He hasn’t moved much. 

“Carnations,” says Steve, nodding. “I promise you weren’t supposed to arrange your own bouquet.”

“Oh my god,” blurts Bucky. Now _he’s_ the one turning red, a real tomato juice red, his eyes glazing over as he looks into the middle distance like he’s communing with a ghost. “Oh my god, the note. I—Steve, I—” Bucky interrupts himself with a bark of laughter.

“I’m sorry,” says Steve. 

“Don’t be!” cries Bucky, still wheezing. He swipes the back of his right hand over his eyes, his entire face crinkled up into a genuine, delighted smile. There’s something so horribly tender in his eyes that Steve’s stomach drops out. “Don’t be, god, it’s—there was a note from Becca, that I wasn’t supposed to fulfill the order, but she couldn’t make it today. Work emergency. Her, um, her real work.” 

Well, there’s a snag Steve didn’t anticipate. The best laid plans. “Oh,” he says, huffing. “That’s—I didn’t intend—”

“Steve,” interrupts Bucky. He reaches out for the flowers, so Steve hands over the bouquet. With the same soft look in his eyes, Bucky cradles the flowers to his chest, ducking his head to sniff at one of the big, glorious blooms. “I love carnations,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

Steve laughs nervously. “It’s my pleasure, Buck.”

“Listen,” says Bucky. “Are you busy? Right now?”

“I’m free,” says Steve. 

“Lock the door, would you?” asks Bucky. “And turn the sign over?”

Steve raises an eyebrow, but he goes to the door and does what Bucky asked him to do. “Is this the part where you bake me into a pie?” he quips, turning back to Bucky. “I have to tell you, that doesn’t usually work out so well for people.”

“Trying to incapacitate you or baking you into a pie?” asks Bucky. “Because that seems oddly specific.”

“My work experience is colorful,” says Steve, leaning back up against the counter. 

“Well, don’t just stand there looking like that,” says Bucky, his eyes doing a full sweep of Steve’s body. “Follow me.” He turns away, pushing aside the curtain and disappearing into the back of the shop. 

“Looking like what?” calls Steve. He only lags behind for a moment before ducking under the counter and sweeping the curtain aside to follow Bucky. 

The room he steps into is, if possible, even more green than the actual storefront. The air temperature dips a few degrees as he enters; there’s a massive commercial refrigerator along one wall, filled with labeled bouquets, while the rest of the room seems to be filled mostly with buckets and pots, some empty, most housing flower cuttings of more varieties than Steve’s ever seen in one place. 

“Like _that_. This way,” Bucky says from the opposite end of the back room. He’s leaning up against the doorway waiting for Steve. “Upstairs.”

“Are you taking me to your apartment?” Steve asks, catching up with Bucky. 

“I want to put these in a vase,” says Bucky, turning to go up the stairs. “And there’s something else I want to show you. Are you okay with cats?”

“I don’t interact with them much,” says Steve. “But if you mean allergies, I don’t have any.”

“Okay,” says Bucky. “Alpine is friendly. She’ll rub all over your ankles. I just wanted to make sure.”

At the top of the stairs, Bucky stops on the landing, extracting a keyring from the pocket of his work apron. The door opens into a small entryway that immediately becomes a cozy, well-lit living room. Steve is taking in the squashy brown couch when a small white cat trots up and yowls at Bucky, weaving between his legs as he sets the flowers down and then braces his shoulder on the wall to untie the laces of his purple converse. 

“It’s not dinner time,” he tells her sternly. “You can’t fool me, brat.” He glances sidelong at Steve, who mimics Bucky and slips out of his shoes. “I always feed her when I get home but if I ever come up early, no matter what time it is, she acts like she’s never been fed before.”

“I can relate,” Steve says dryly. 

Bucky snorts a laugh. “I need a vase.” He retrieves the bouquet, cradled gently against his chest, and Steve follows him into the kitchen. 

“Can I help?” he asks, hovering in the doorway.

“No, I got it.” He produces a glass vase from a cabinet, filling it up in the sink and then setting it in the center of the battered kitchen table.

“There aren’t as many plants as I expected,” Steve admits, still stealing glances around Bucky’s apartment. It’s bright and cheery, cluttered, but there’s a noticeable absence of plantlife that Steve had just assumed would fill a place Bucky inhabited. 

“What?” asks Bucky, looking at Steve over the tops of his glasses as he unwraps the bouquet. “Oh, just, in general? It’s mostly because Alpine’s a dummy. There are too many plants that are toxic to cats, and even if I get ones that are safe, she just _destroys_ them,” he sighs. “Chewed leaves, broken pots, dirt everywhere. She’s a terror. Thank god for the greenhouse. I keep everything in there.”

Steve nods, watching Bucky remove the package of plant food and tear off the top, squeezing it into the vase. He spends quite a while fussing over the placement of the flowers into the vase, adjusting sprigs of baby’s breath and gently tweaking the big carnations.

“Will these be okay?” Steve asks nervously. 

“Yeah. I’m going to take them into the greenhouse, too,” says Bucky. 

“The greenhouse,” repeats Steve, nodding sagely. 

“Wait here,” Bucky blurts. “Don’t let Alpine jump up on the table.” 

“Wh—” Steve starts to say, but Bucky flees the room so quickly he practically leaves behind cartoon speed lines. 

The moment Bucky leaves, Alpine leaps up onto the kitchen table and stretches her neck to sniff at the carnations. “No!” cries Steve, lurching forward to wrap both hands around her torso and drag her gently backwards. In response to Steve readjusting her trajectory, Alpine’s entire body loosens like a slinky and he almost loses his grip. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” he mutters, wrangling the wriggly coils of her body into the crook of his elbow and flipping her onto her back to be cradled. At a loss for what else to do, Steve starts to rock her like a baby. 

“ _Mroooow_ ,” Alpine wails, going limp, all four legs jutting out straight. She’s clearly unhappy about being denied her poisonous snack, but she’s also too shocked to bite or scratch him. It’s a win. 

“Come here often?” Steve asks her, swaying into a slow waltz around the kitchen. “Yeah, me neither...”

“She’s more of a disco girl,” says Bucky. 

Steve turns around to find Bucky leaning up against the doorway. He’s changed his clothes, switching out the apron and jeans for black workout pants and a thick, chunky grey cardigan on top of his t-shirt. He looks very soft around the edges, temptingly slouchy. Like he’d be nice to hug. Bucky would fit so neatly into Steve’s arms. 

“She jumped up on the table,” Steve says sheepishly. 

When Bucky smiles, he smiles with his whole face. The natural pout to his mouth means that smiles have further to travel, and watching his lips curl up and his eyes crinkle warms Steve from the inside out. “She’s nosy like that,” he says. “Come on. Put her down and pick up the flowers, instead. I’m going to show you the greenhouse.”

💐🌸🌹

Steve Rogers is in his apartment.

Steve Rogers is _in his apartment_. 

Bucky invited Steve upstairs to his apartment, Steve Rogers is currently _in_ Bucky’s _home _, having just been caught dancing in his kitchen with his cat in his arms. Steve Rogers gave him a huge bouquet of carnations. The only explanation for Steve now standing in Bucky’s apartment is that Bucky was so overwhelmed by Steve’s _Steveness___ that he panicked hard enough to blue-screen his entire brain and by the time he finished rebooting and landed on the login page again, they were already upstairs. 

It’s fine, because Bucky is good at carefully sweeping his debilitating agitation beneath the rug of his faux calm demeanor. His heart is pounding so hard against his ribcage that he’s ready for it to deflate like a sad balloon and put him out of his misery, but that’s internal anxiety. Steve can’t hear that. Can he? He’s a supersoldier. Can he hear Bucky’s heartbeat? 

It’s bad enough that Bucky didn’t just contain their interactions to the store, where he can apply professional courtesy and the veneer of business to their conversation and feel reasonably confident that he’s standing on solid ground. No, he not only invited Steve upstairs to his apartment, he promised to show him the _greenhouse_. 

Nobody comes into the greenhouse. 

Bucky props open the door to the roof with his foot for Steve, then makes sure it’s closed behind them. He really doesn’t need Alpine getting out tonight. 

There’s not a lot of room between the door and the entrance to the greenhouse, and for a moment, before Bucky can shuffle to the door, he’s sandwiched up against Steve’s solid frame, a big burst of flowers held defensively between them. Steve shoots him an embarrassed grin, which is oddly comforting. 

It’s nice to know he’s not the only awkward mess up here. Steve’s a total disaster and _he’s_ Captain America. 

Bucky unlocks the door and backs into the greenhouse, Steve following him in. He puts the vase down on the wooden table running down the length of the room unasked, then draws himself up straight, arms tucked around his chest like he’s trying unsuccessfully to make himself smaller. It doesn’t really work. 

“Promised I’d let you see it,” murmurs Bucky, feeling stupid now. It’s really nothing special, not on the surface. He mostly keeps a rotating stock of flowers for the store, lined up in big pots all along the walls, while the shelves are filled with smaller pots. It’s warm in here, much warmer than it is outside, and Bucky makes sure the door is closed properly, putting his back up against it. 

Steve walks forward, keeping his arms retracted, leaning in when he wants to peer at a particular flower or plant. 

It’s quiet in here, sound muffled by the soil and plant life, so Bucky is very aware of his own breathing. He’s also aware of the _plants’_ breathing, the constant ebb and flow of oxygen and carbon dioxide in this tiny ecosystem that clues him into the atmosphere better than most. 

“Do you grow everything in here?” Steve asks, turning back around to face Bucky. “Everything you sell downstairs?” The greenhouse isn’t big, but with Steve in it, it looks even smaller than it normally does. Like he’s oversized for the space, the angled ceiling only rising up above his head with about twelve inches of clearance. 

“I try to,” says Bucky. “I can’t grow everything myself, so I do use some suppliers.” He shrugs. “My stuff is better, though, and people notice when I do.”

“I’ll bet,” says Steve. There are two chairs at the table, so he pulls one out and sits down, making himself comfortable. 

Bucky clears his throat, trying to keep his anxiety to manageable levels. “If I can’t grow something myself, I use cuttings, repot them with my own soil and plant food. They do better with me.”

Steve takes this information in like that isn’t a weird thing for Bucky to say. He tilts his head up to look at an orchid Bucky is particularly proud of, growing against a fake branch that Bucky rigged to the slope in the ceiling, spilling down into ten individual blossoms. The flowers are a rich violet; it’s the happiest orchid Bucky’s ever had, blooming almost constantly as long as he carefully trims the deadheads close to the base of the stems. 

“This is incredible,” murmurs Steve. “It smells good.”

“Flowers tend to,” says Bucky, reaching up to brush his fingers against the orchid. It flashes healthy and bright in the back of his mind, no trace of sickness. He has a pot of rhododendrons with root rot in here that he’s trying to save and he can smell them all the way across the room, sickly sweet and musty. 

“Not the flowers,” says Steve. “They do smell good, I mean, it’s just…” He trails off, looking around. His brow furrows, lips pursed as he tries to gather his thoughts. 

“It smells alive,” suggests Bucky. “Healthy and fresh. I know what you mean.”

“Right,” says Steve. When their eyes meet, Bucky feels a little jolt, right up his spine. The greenhouse is sealed and the vents are closed, not an ounce of wind present, but the quiet susurration of leaves fills the small space, soft at first, then building slowly. Every hair on the back of Bucky’s neck rises. Steve’s eyes widen. “Do you feel that?”

“No,” lies Bucky. “Feel what?”

Steve’s blue eyes narrow at him. He stands up, with purpose, and closes the space between them, stopping inches away from where Bucky has instinctively backed up to plaster his back against the door. 

With very little effort, Steve could shake the secret out of him. It’s so close to the surface, it would be a blessed relief. 

“I’ll go, if you want me to,” Steve says quietly. “If this is too much.”

“I like having you here,” says Bucky, dry-mouthed. “It feels good. For me, and for the…”

“What am I feeling?” Steve asks. He’s so close, but so carefully not touching Bucky. 

“I don’t know, exactly,” admits Bucky. “I’ve never had anyone up here that wasn’t a Barnes. Even then, nobody in my family has quite the same talent, so it’s different.”

“Everyone has a thing, right?” Steve chances a step closer, bracing one hand up against the wall behind him. Close enough for Bucky to feel the heat of him. 

“You remember that, huh,” mumbles Bucky. 

“It struck me at the time,” says Steve. “When I first came in, on Valentine’s Day… I’ve got pretty good hearing, but I’ve never been able to hear plants growing before. Took me a while to work out it wasn’t wind.”

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I could explain it,” says Bucky.

“I’ve seen a lot of unbelievable shit, pal,” says Steve, laughing softly. He is so close. Bucky could put both hands on his shoulders, wrap his legs around his waist, and ride him into the sunset. 

“That’s fair.” It comes out pitched embarrassingly high. In a room full of plants producing oxygen, Bucky still feels like he can’t quite breathe. 

“Is this okay?” Steve says, low, and Bucky would swear hand to god that he feels Steve’s voice sink into him like a physical thing, dragging through his entire body and externalizing his reaction to the intimate weight of it with an involuntary shudder. 

“More than,” he says, trying not to sound as unsteady as he feels. He does finally give in to the desire to touch Steve, curling his right hand over his shoulder and anchoring himself to his body before he dematerializes into confused atoms. “In fact, if you move, that’s when we’ll have a problem.”

“Then I’m going to kiss you now,” says Steve. He’s a lot smoother at this than everything leading up to this point. If Bucky had at least two brain cells left to smash together, he’d probably be annoyed by that. 

“Sounds good,” squeaks Bucky. He squeezes reflexively at Steve’s thick shoulder and marvels at the complete lack of give. “Nothing but enthusiasm here, tempered by a healthy dose of nerves—” 

Steve interrupts his anxious spiral with a soft, firm press of his lips. It’s nice to not be drunk and sloppy for this part, even though the kiss in the library was good, it was their first kiss, and Bucky has no regrets about it. Still. This is better, Steve leaning in, his other hand cupping Bucky’s jaw and tilting his face up. Thank god for the door at his back, supporting him as he melts into the steady pressure of Steve’s mouth, and thank god for Steve at his front, just as solid.

  


“It’s gonna get weird in here real fast,” he says, breathless, when they part. “We should go back inside. If you want. To continue this.”

“I would love to talk a bit,” rumbles Steve. He looks completely goddamn serious. 

“Talk,” repeats Bucky, doing his very best to keep the building whine out of his voice. 

Steve nods, kissing at the corner of Bucky’s lips. “Maybe watch a movie.”

Oh, god. A date? Does Steve want them to have a date first? He wants to talk, watch a movie…. Bucky’s horny little defenses crumble in the face of Steve’s overwhelming decorum. 

“We could order food,” Bucky offers and Steve just lights the fuck up.

“Great,” he says. Then he pins Bucky gently to the door with both of his big hands on his hips and kisses him deep and wet, leaving Bucky gasping when they break apart. “I’m _starving_.”

💐🌸🌹

Bucky orders pizza and they sit at opposite ends of the couch, the cat perched like a loaf of bread between them. The movie isn’t familiar to Steve, but he’s not exactly concentrating on it. Not when Bucky makes for much more compelling viewing, his knees pulled up to his chest as he sits all curled up in the corner. He chews his lip as he watches, his eyes half-lidded behind the frames of his glasses.

For about an hour, Steve thinks he’s being all kinds of subtle, sneaking glances, and then Bucky says, “Should I just turn it off?” and Steve’s entire face heats up like a metal playground slide in the sun. 

“That obvious, huh?” he asks. 

“If you wanna talk, we can talk,” says Bucky. 

Steve hesitates. There are a lot of things he wants to ask, to learn, but at the same time, he’s so comfortable, sitting on the couch with Bucky, watching him watch a movie. His curiosity isn’t as pressing as it was in the greenhouse, when he could feel the change in the air against his skin. 

He thinks he knows, now. Bucky’s a kind of conduit, facilitating the harmonious flow of energy. Unless Bucky wants to give voice to it, Steve’s not entitled to more. 

“I don’t need anything, exactly,” says Steve slowly. “I know what I felt. That’s enough.”

“I’ve never met anyone that could feel it that wasn’t family,” says Bucky. “It’s like most people aren’t tuned in.”

“I’m not most people,” says Steve. 

“Guess not,” huffs Bucky. He turns his body toward Steve, pushing his feet under the cushion but remaining mindful of Alpine sleeping on top. “You don’t have to report me, do you?”

Steve angles his body in turn. “Who would I report you to?”

“I don’t know,” says Bucky, shrugging. “The government?”

“No,” says Steve firmly. “I’m not going to report you to the government or...anyone else. What would I report? That I think I can hear plants growing a little faster when you’re around?”

“I mean, I run a wildly successful business,” Bucky says frankly. “I have a distinct advantage, here.”

“You’re right,” says Steve. “Let me just get the president on the phone, then.”

Bucky snorts. “Captain America is kind of a dick.”

“Captain America is a fictional character. Steve Rogers is definitely a dick,” says Steve. “You can trust him, though.”

“I know,” Bucky says softly. “I wouldn’t have invited you upstairs if I didn’t. Nobody else gets to see my greenhouse. I don’t even like my sisters to go inside.”

“How many sisters do you have?” asks Steve, grabbing hold of the segue and using it to springboard himself back out of the weird, squirmy feeling in his gut. Bucky trusts him. That’s neat. 

“Three,” says Bucky. “I’m the oldest. Becca’s a year younger, she and I are really close, she lives nearby. Hannah is next, she’s out in Seattle doing grad school. Cat is the baby, she’s in college at Yale.”

“Wow,” says Steve. “And do they all, uh...have a thing?”

“Magic fingers,” Bucky sing-songs. “My dad builds stuff. My mom has got this real sensitive touch with animals. He’s an engineer, she’s a vet. Anything Becca does in the kitchen turns into this life-changing flavor explosion, cooking, baking, whatever. You get the idea, right?”

“Sure,” says Steve, even though the number of questions he wants to ask just tripled. “Everything you touch grows faster, healthier, stronger.”

“Plants,” says Bucky firmly. “Just plants. It doesn’t work on anything else.”

“Noted,” says Steve. 

“One of my cousins is a very successful sommelier,” says Bucky. “But my dad also told me I have a great uncle that’s just really hyper aware of the tide. Whether it’s high or low. At least that’s not me, right?” He laughs. 

“That’s harder to use in a productive way,” says Steve. “Unless you work for the National Ocean Service.”

“We call it mundane magic,” says Bucky. “Or everyday magic.”

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” says Steve. “I’m honored.”

Bucky’s face turns a pleasant shade of pink, his shoulders rising in a shrug. “Anyway. Tell me about your lithops. Is it growing new leaves yet?”

Steve sits up excitedly. “Yes! I took a picture for you.” He slips his phone out of his pocket and pulls up the photo he took earlier in the day. Steve is going to hand him the whole phone, but Bucky crawls forward, scooping Alpine up against his chest as he settles next to Steve’s hip, leaning in so closely the wayward strands of his hair brush Steve’s jaw. Steve swallows hard and uses his fingers to pinch at the screen, zooming the photo in. “I don’t start watering it yet, right?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. 

“Nope,” Bucky confirms. “When the old leaves are completely absorbed, that’s when you want to give it a really good soak. That’s great. A good sign. It didn’t die during the winter.”

“I want more of them,” says Steve. “It looks pretty lonely, sitting there by itself on the windowsill.”

“I told you,” says Bucky. He sounds like he’s grinning. “I got some seeds in for a succulent that looks like it’s got bunny ears when it sprouts. When I get the seeds planted, you can have some.” 

Bucky’s head rests lightly on Steve’s shoulder and Steve’s heart rate kicks up at Bucky’s proximity. 

“That sounds cute,” says Steve. He tucks his phone away. Alpine seems to abruptly grow tired of being held, eeling out of Bucky’s arms and darting out of the room. On the TV, the credits start to roll. Steve still has no idea what movie they just watched. 

“Movie’s over,” Bucky says meaningfully. 

“Sure is,” says Steve. Bucky’s leaning on him, touching him, so Steve touches him back, wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

“Guess the evening is over.”

Steve stiffens. “Right. It is getting late, I should—”

“Stay the night?” blurts Bucky. 

“Bucky—” Steve’s brain settles on one note, like a stuck piano key. 

“I just meant that you don’t have to leave,” Bucky says quickly. “I don’t want you to leave. The movie-and-talking part is over, but don’t leave. We could go to my room. You could sleep over. We don’t have to do anything, but if you wanted to, we could.”

Steve relaxes by degrees, the chord dying off in his head. “I’d like to kiss you again,” he says hoarsely. “And if you want more, then I want more.”

It’s gotten dark since they sat down on the couch. When Bucky eases out from under Steve’s arm, Steve turns to face him. In the light of the TV, Bucky’s eyes are wide and pale as he kisses him.

“That sounds pretty good,” Bucky mumbles into Steve’s mouth. He climbs fully into Steve’s lap, knees digging into the cushions as he straddles his thighs. The next kiss is open and wet, eager, and when Bucky jostles against him with a clumsy roll of his hips, Steve feels the heat of his hardening cock against the base of his belly. 

Steve curls his hands around Bucky’s hips, steadying him in place. He swallows his own groan and watches Bucky as he leans back, licking his lips. “You seem comfortable.” He squeezes lightly at Bucky’s waist and Bucky squirms a little, flustered. 

“Should I not be?” His glasses are askew on his face. 

“Do you want to stay here, or should I take you to bed?” asks Steve. 

“Oh,” says Bucky. He licks his lips again. “Bed. Please.”

“Hold on,” says Steve, sitting up straight. “And put your arms around my neck.”

“Oh my god,” says Bucky thinly. He wraps his right arm around the back of Steve’s neck and rests his left hand very gently on Steve’s shoulder, barely applying pressure. “Are you going to—”

Sliding his hands down to palm Bucky’s ass, Steve stands up. It’s very little effort to support Bucky’s weight like this, but Bucky squeaks and tightens his grip, legs clamping around Steve’s hips. “Which door is your room?” asks Steve. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” repeats Bucky. He’s flushed bright red, immediately hiding his face against Steve’s shoulder as he clutches at him. The hot line of his dick is pressed tightly against Steve’s abdomen, now very hard. “I’m going to be jerking off to this for weeks. Pretend I didn’t say that,” he says, voice muffled. 

There are two doors leading off from the living room. The room beyond the one on the right contains a dripping tap, so he goes to the one on the left, bracing Bucky with one arm while he opens the door and walks through, Bucky clinging to him like a koala. 

Bucky’s bedroom is mostly taken up by an unmade queen-sized bed, the covers rumpled, two smashed pillows shoved up against the headboard. There’s a bookshelf alongside one wall, full to bursting, leaving just enough room to walk at the foot of the bed and along the right side of it. 

As Steve hesitates just inside, Bucky reaches out behind him to close the door. “Alpine,” he explains. “Oh, god, sorry for the mess.”

Steve ignores him, climbing onto the end of the bed and shuffling forward on his knees. Then he leans forward, releasing Bucky onto his back on the mattress. Bucky sinks back with a soft exhalation, his legs still loosely wrapped around Steve’s hips. 

“That was really hot,” complains Bucky, squirming up the bed and situating a pillow under his head. “I think you know just how hot that was.”

“I do now,” says Steve evenly. “You told me.”

“God,” groans Bucky. “Help me get my clothes off.”

Between them, in a tangle of limbs, they get undressed. Bucky’s cardigan and shirt and leggings, his glasses set aside, the clip pulled out of his hair, then Steve’s t-shirt and sweats, all tossed aside. The prosthetic has an accompanying harness that fits diagonally across Bucky’s body, and Steve leaves it entirely alone, careful not to touch. By mutual unspoken agreement, they leave their underwear on, Steve pressing down over Bucky to kiss him again. 

The thing is, Bucky’s so responsive. Steve’s barely pinning him down and Bucky arches his hips up with a bitten-off groan, seeking friction. All the places where their bodies touch, skin to skin, wire directly into Steve’s nervous system. 

“Hang on,” mumbles Bucky, wriggling full body against Steve. “I usually don’t...have sex with this on.”

Steve pauses his assault on Bucky’s neck with his mouth. “Hmm?” 

Bucky puts his right hand on Steve’s chest, scratching lightly with his fingertips. “I’d like to get my arm off. Sorry. Is that weird?”

“No,” says Steve, giving Bucky space. “Of course it’s not weird.”

Steve catches a brief flash of open insecurity on Bucky’s face as he shifts restlessly on the mattress, but the expression is gone before it even registers fully. “Are you sure?” asks Bucky. 

“I’m very sure,” says Steve. “I want you to be comfortable.”

Bucky watches him a second longer. Then he grasps his prosthetic right above the joint of his elbow, releasing a clasp. It comes apart in two pieces, the arm first, then as Bucky undoes the straps of the harness, the rest loosens like a sling. He reaches out to set the arm on the bedside table and then shoves the harness away from his body. Bucky’s left arm ends a couple of inches below the shoulder, the skin a little red from the pressure of the prosthetic. 

“Okay,” says Bucky quietly. “I’m good.”

“Better?” Steve asks, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. His chest rises in a deep, shuddering breath so Steve kisses him again. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Thanks.” He smiles, a bit of tension seeping out of him. Reaching up, he pushes his fingers into Steve’s hair. 

They build up to it again, Steve pressing a thigh between Bucky’s legs and bracing his hands on the mattress to kiss Bucky’s upturned lips. Bucky seems content to grip the waistband of Steve’s underwear and angle his hips up into Steve’s body, making soft, breathy noises when Steve does something particularly evocative. Steve feels greedy with it, wants more of those sounds, focused intently on drawing them out and pulling them into his own body. 

Their lips part, Bucky panting quietly in the darkness, his body loose and warm. “If you keep that up much longer, I’m gonna hump your leg and come,” he huffs. 

Steve hums. “Want me to stop you?”

“Want you to touch me if I’m gonna come.” 

“If?”

“ _When_.” The pout is clear on Bucky’s face. “Steve!”

Steve considers him, spread over the bed, flushed and needy with arousal. He looks so good like this. He’s the picture of wound up impatience. “Where’s your—”

“Bedside table,” interrupts Bucky, pointing. “First drawer.”

“I’ll touch you,” says Steve warmly. He leans over, removes the bottle from the drawer, and drops it on the bed beside them. Bucky’s hips keep moving in little hopeful circles, his cock tenting up the fabric of his boxers, a patch of damp at the head. Steve doesn’t need to do anything but tug at the waistband to pull them down just under the wet, flushed length of him. 

“Oh,” says Bucky, breathless. His chest is blotchy with color, arm stretched up languid above his head. He watches, rapt, as Steve slides his own boxer briefs down his hips, tucking the waistband just under his balls to free his cock. “You’re…” Bucky swallows, dragging his eyes up to Steve’s face. “You’re really beautiful.”

Heat pools in Steve’s belly. “The feeling is very much mutual, Buck. Is this okay?” He inches forward to settle more firmly over Bucky’s thighs, slotting their hips carefully together. When it becomes clear that Steve is lining them up, Bucky’s eyes go dark, his mouth dropping open. 

“Uh huh,” he groans, twisting his hand into the pillow. “You’re gonna—us both—?”

Steve nods. He picks up the lube, popping the cap and squeezing some out. Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off the movement of Steve’s fingers. 

“Steve,” says Bucky, breath hitching. He doesn’t seem to have anything else to say. 

“I’ve got you,” says Steve. 

When he wraps a slick hand around them, they both gasp. A burst of sensory input, heat and pressure, the intimate press of hot, velvety flesh tucked snug in Steve’s firm grip. Bucky’s hips jerk, his head tossed back. His hair spills loose on the sheets. 

For a long moment, Steve doesn’t move. Fits his hand around the throb of their erections and watches Bucky adjust, the ripple of his stomach muscles as he tenses and breathes. Then he strokes them both, a flick of his wrist from base to tip, and Bucky lets out a long moan. 

“Good?” Steve chokes out. 

Bucky covers his face with his hand. “I am going to die,” he mumbles. “ _Steve_ , please. You’re going to kill me.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” 

“You—” Bucky whimpers when Steve brushes his thumb over the very tip of his cock, where precome is beading up in little pearls. Then he’s busy panting as Steve adjusts his grip and finds them both a good rhythm, working them together. “You wear a costume and fight supervillains,” he finally finishes. “Can’t call _me_ dramatic.”

“Pardon me.” Steve sinks down lower, spreading his knees, drawing a ragged cry out of Bucky. He plants an open-mouthed kiss on Bucky’s lips, keeping them crowded together, caged in, until Bucky tenses up, spine bowing up to push his hips into Steve’s hand. “You close, honey?”

Bucky shudders, nodding helplessly. His lips are parted, throat working, but he’s out of words. 

“I’ve got you,” repeats Steve. His own pleasure is climbing in tandem, a slow ripple of warmth that spreads inside him, out from the very core of him where he’s tucked up snug against Bucky. Tightening his grip, pulling more firmly, slick friction, and then— 

With a low groan, Bucky’s entire body goes rigid with pleasure, spilling over Steve’s hand as he comes.

Steve loosens his grip but continues to stroke them until Bucky’s breathing goes a little higher, his hips twitching in the barest hint of discomfort. “Ah—” he gasps, and Steve releases them both. 

Etiquette has him climbing off Bucky to curl up beside him, spreading his hand over Bucky’s belly to maintain contact. The room is quiet save for the gradual steadying of their breathing; Bucky recovers slowly, dopey from orgasm. Rolls himself over and blinks at Steve with big eyes in the dark. 

“Hey,” he says quietly. 

Steve smiles. “Hey.”

“Your hands are incredible.”

“You feel good?”

“I feel very good.” Bucky touches him gently, skims his fingers down Steve’s shoulder, all the way to his hip. He notices at the same time that Steve moves to cover himself. “Hey. You didn’t…”

“I didn’t want to keep going,” admits Steve. “Always seems rude to me.”

Bucky stares at him. “Rude?”

“To keep…you know.” Steve makes a lewd gesture. 

“Steve,” says Bucky slowly. “It feels rude of _me_ to let you sit there with your dick hard when you just punched my brain into the stratosphere. You could have just come on me.”

Steve inhales sharply and chokes briefly on his own saliva, his face burning. “It’s—” he wheezes. “Still technically our first—”

“How about this,” says Bucky. He squeezes at Steve’s hip. “Roll onto your back, will you?”

“Bucky—” Steve slides onto his back, shivering as Bucky moves with him, slotting down between Steve’s legs. “You don’t have to do anything else.”

“Uh huh,” says Bucky, dark hair brushing against Steve’s inner thigh. “Can I suck your dick, now?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, voice strangled. 

“It’s okay if you pull my hair,” says Bucky. Then he wraps his lips around the head of Steve’s cock and swallows, taking him deep, and Steve doesn’t think about anything else.

💐🌸🌹

Bucky wakes up to Steve Rogers in his bed.

Steve Rogers in his apartment, in his greenhouse, in his _bed_. The covers have been abandoned wholesale, pushed entirely off the bed. Steve generates enough body heat to comfortably warm Bucky’s entire room and he’s wrapped around Bucky like a weighted blanket, snoring softly into his shoulder. 

He has to feed Alpine. Bucky can’t hear her, but he’s sure she’ll start yowling at the door soon. He’s trapped, though. Steve’s got both arms wrapped around his waist, spooned up behind him. 

Bucky yawns, luxuriating in the warmth and comfort of Steve’s body. He doesn’t have to move yet. He can just lie here, squashed in Steve’s embrace, and doze lazily for as long as he wants.

Some time later, Bucky hears Alpine let out a warbling meow, and Steve stirs behind him. 

“Cat alarm clock,” Bucky mumbles, stifling another yawn. “Sorry.”

Steve mumbles something truly incoherent. The top of his head rests against Bucky’s back, his arms loosening around his waist. 

“I’ll be right back,” says Bucky. 

Steve doesn’t even acknowledge him, just buries his face in the pillow Bucky leaves behind and draws his entire enormous body up into a little ball. It gives Bucky time to go to the bathroom, wash his face, feed Alpine, and get a pot of coffee brewing. He doesn’t have a lot in the fridge, but he does still have some of Becca’s cookies in the freezer. He’s putting them on a plate and shoving them into the microwave when Steve appears in the doorway, his underwear riding very low on his hips, eyes half-closed as he scratches at his belly. 

Just a typical national hero, standing mostly naked in Bucky’s kitchen, blue eyes narrowed against the sunlight streaming in. 

“Hey,” says Bucky. “Coffee will be ready in a minute.”

Steve grunts. He crosses the kitchen, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s waist and dropping a kiss onto the top of Bucky’s bare left shoulder. 

He shivers and Steve tenses, immediately pulling away. “I’m sorry,” he rumbles. “Too much—”

“No,” says Bucky, catching Steve’s hand before he can stray too far. “No, it’s fine. It’s good. Just not used to… It’s good. I promise.”

Steve’s mouth has an apologetic pull to the corners but he stays put. 

“Osteosarcoma,” says Bucky, clearing his throat. 

Steve blinks at him slowly. His blank expression hints that there isn’t a single neuron firing in his brain right now. It is painfully endearing. “I’m sorry?”

“Bone cancer,” says Bucky. He tries to smother his laughter and doesn’t fully succeed. “My arm. I know that I made up a story, at the party. I just wanted you to know. It’s not recent, or anything. It doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s okay to touch. I had cancer, when I was fourteen.”

“Oh,” says Steve, blinking again, visibly processing Bucky’s words. Bucky watches his throat bob as he swallows. When he speaks, there’s a rough weight to his voice. “Thank you for telling me. For sharing it. All of it. All of you.”

Bucky swears his knees turn to water, right there. “I have a pretty good feeling about you.”

“Funny,” says Steve. “Feel the same way about you, too.”

Before Bucky can make some kind of embarrassing face, or, worse, start crying, he turns to the microwave and pushes the start button. “How do you feel about cookies for breakfast?”

“Unconventional,” says Steve. “I think I can get behind it.”

“Think you can get behind _me_ ,” mutters Bucky, then squeaks as Steve steps up right behind him, arm around his waist. 

“I have very good hearing,” says Steve, soft, against his ear. 

The microwave beeps, startling Bucky, and he busies himself with taking out the plate of warm cookies. “That’s good to know.” Steve releases him with a chuckle and Bucky turns around. “My sister made these. Even frozen and microwaved, they’ll taste better than any other cookie you’ve ever had.”

Steve just looks at him. Doesn’t touch the plate. “I’d really like to ask you out.”

“Uh.” Bucky stares back. “What?”

“On a date,” says Steve. “I’d like to take you out to dinner, or to a movie, or…a museum. Anything you like.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to take his time working his way through the labyrinth of Steve’s sentence. It makes total sense, but for some reason Bucky can’t figure out why Steve is phrasing it like it’s some sort of milestone, like it’s—

“Oh,” says Bucky. Steve never actually asked him out. After all of this, they haven’t— 

“A date,” says Steve. “With me.”

“I’m free next Friday,” says Bucky. 

Steve’s smile gets his whole face involved. He reaches out and takes a cookie. “Then I’ll pick you up on Friday.”

💐🌸🌹

When Steve’s lithops finally blooms in the summer, the little nub opening up into a bright yellow flower, the windowsill has been thoroughly colonized by a wide array of succulents, cacti, and a handful of flowering plants.

Steve stands at the window, warm with pride. Bucky planted it, cared for it, helped it along, but this bloom—Steve did that. He kept it alive, created an environment for it and helped it thrive. It’s such a small thing, but he protected it, and now it’s bloomed, healthy and bright. 

He crosses the living room to the bedroom, picking up Bucky’s crumpled suit jacket off the floor as he goes. 

There’s a sprig of flowers in the breast pocket, a little dry and wilted, but holding up surprisingly well after a long night of black tie partying. 

When he enters the bedroom, Bucky is facedown on the mattress in a patch of sunlight, the sheets pooled around his hips. Steve sits on the edge of the bed and traces lightly down the length of Bucky’s spine with his finger. 

“Tickles,” Bucky mumbles, squirming. 

“The lithops bloomed,” says Steve, unable to contain himself. 

“Mm, yeah?” Bucky angles his face towards Steve and cracks one eye open. There are pillow creases on his cheek. “That’s great.”

Steve smiles. He has the flowers from Bucky’s jacket pinched between his fingers and he watches as Bucky focuses on them slowly. “Hey, Buck, what are these again?”

“Lily of the valley,” says Bucky sleepily. 

“You’ve worn them before.”

Bucky hums. “Sure.”

“Tell me about them?”

“S’just a woodland plant,” Bucky says, with a motion of his right shoulder that, were he upright, might indicate a shrug. “They flower any time from early March to late May… I had an early batch this year, then a late one, managed to keep ‘em alive.” He wiggles his fingers. “Oh, they’re poisonous, so don’t put that in your mouth.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” laughs Steve. “But thank you.”

Bucky falls silent, eyelids drooping like he’s ready to drop off again. 

“Buck?”

“Mm.”

“Do they mean something?”

“All flowers mean something,” says Bucky. “Usually a bunch of things.”

“But this one?”

“Chastity, humility…” says Bucky. “Traditionally, anyway.”

“Oh.”

Bucky’s eyes open, pale blue, a little groggy. “They’re said to bring you luck in your love life,” he continues. 

Steve waits patiently. He rolls the stem in his fingers, mindful of the delicate, bell-shaped flowers. 

“I didn’t know you were gonna be at that party,” admits Bucky. “I didn’t even know who you were, remember? But they bloomed early. Felt right to pocket a cutting, but I just did it on a whim. They’re popular for spring weddings, you know why?”

“No,” says Steve. His heart is very full.

“It’s corny, I guess.” Bucky finally props himself up on his elbow, his expression soft and open as he looks up at Steve. His thick hair falls over his bare shoulders, mussed and tangled from the festivities the night before. He is beautiful. “They signify the return of happiness.”

Steve sucks in a breath. Holds it in his lungs and then exhales gently. 

“Like I said.” Bucky smiles crookedly. “Corny.”

“No,” says Steve. Climbing fully onto the bed, he cups Bucky’s jaw and leans down for a sweet, sun-warm kiss. “Not corny at all.”

  


💐


End file.
